Undertow
by shadow975
Summary: AU: Arwen was in Imladris when Estel was a boy, and loves him only as a brother; and are there truly chosen ones, or is all that matters that someone take the task? This is a dark AU, but not without hope for redemption. WIP
1. Prologue

**Undertow**

**_There are no chosen ones; only those who choose, and act._**

**Prologue**

And the Ring is on the pedestal, and its call goes out to each of them, to each whispering softly, beneath the surface as the tug of the undertow pulls at the unwary. Undiscerned, it creeps into their hearts: finds the Elf's cold and inhospitable, slick as ice and without purchase in its immortal depths; finds the Dwarf's already inhabited with a greed easily fulfilled, the greed for beauty which is all around them; had already tested the Halflings and found them innocent and repulsive to its touch, shies away from them as from a crawling thing, and the old one, the Istar, had already proved too strong. But the Men.... Oh, the Men.... One it had already touched, already felt the softness of his heart, and now, now, now there is a fresher bruise as well, a soft place for it to breathe, for it to heal, where she has touched, and which aches for her still. And the other, now, as well, oh, that love, that love which burns like fire upon each of them, one for the maiden and one for his home and his brother, ah, here is sweetness indeed, here is meet and tender provender for it to feed upon, and desires it can sway to its own ends. Softly, softly, nestles in, curls about as the smallest snake might curl about the hand; twines about and nestles in to wait, and breathes its poison softly in their hearts.

The brightness of the sun is an anathema, the cold of Caradhras only a small thing, but in the dark and death of Moria it uncoils its longing and draws the Men together, draws them towards each other in a sweet dance of power and distrust, love and fear. For love, oh, Men are quick to love, and quicker still to fear, and it paints its pictures of death and desire, of one come with fiery sword and will of iron; one opposing with armies and despair. Paints its pictures of the maiden soft and yielding, queen at his side, if only he is proven worthy of her love; the City burning at the hand of the king who would seize it, brother gone, exiled, imprisoned, or dead, and himself dead or worse, for what king would keep the only other rightful heirs alive? what king would sleep easy with his rivals yet able to draw breath and oppose him? Oh, the death and dark of Moria is succulent with fear, with despair, and softly it paints its pictures of endings, of beginnings, of mistrust and betrayal, draws them together and keeps them apart, a touch here, a glance in the darkness, eyes like mithril, silvery and hard, and hands too quick to draw a blade. The Istar does not see, the others do not know, but the Men, the Men, the Men are caught in the current, wary, but of each other, not of their own now-poisoned hearts, and the only uncertainty is which will fall first.

But what better fortune could be had? for it is the Istar who falls, though not to the Ring, and Men must lead, the Man must lead, his heart torn and bleeding. Swift and soft as quicksilver the Ring slips in, opens the wounds, drinks the blood of his grief and returns it to him as fear. He is alone: the Elf will not have him, the Man will not follow, the Istar is gone and the end-game approaches, and he alone must find a way. The Ring reveals the path. The other, less stricken, is no less easy prey, for he sees now the fear in the eyes of his would-be king, sees in the light of day the undeniable, that his king does not trust him, does not want him, yet wishes him to surrender and be his strength, be his proof, for if his rival surrenders, this Man of strength and desperation, if his rival surrenders then will not all? But surrender, oh, this is sweet prey indeed, for surrender comes not easily to this one, and such soft visions does it take to show his way to victory instead; his father awaits him, his brother seeks for him; his City lies like a jewel in the shadow of the east, needs only a spark to set it burning to ash, and the king is fire, and the Ring is cool, sweet, soft as water lapping at the edges of his burning heart. The Lady of the Wood is the smallest distraction, and she cannot protect him when they leave; and oh, she is unwise it seems, at the last, and gentle as a snake the Ring slides beneath her touch and presses the soft ache that the Elf left, presses and breathes its poison to the wound.

The end-game approaches, and the Ring sees the path, and moves the slow currents towards destruction.


	2. As if in a dream

As if in a dream she came to him, pressed her lithe, ancient body to his strong back. Her sweet arms around him and warm, she held him close, her cheek to his, as she had when he was a child, and still when a young man, rocking him gently, easing his fears. He found his strength in her, strength in her immortal, unchanging love for him, strength to press on, to do what he must. And she whispered in his ear, as she had done those long years ago, her breath warm as honey on his skin, _you are beloved, brother. Is that not enough?_

And like a dream, she vanished.

The quest, he had thought, would be his salvation. Away again, a kingdom waiting to be claimed and a world to be saved. With the end-game approaching, how could he have time to long for what was denied him? But longing needs no space of time; it lives in the cracks, slips around thoughts like quicksilver. The undertow of the current, tugging the unwary swimmer out to sea.

And into his mind Galadriel had laced visions of his future if they succeeded. Showed him a shieldmaiden of Rohan at his side, beautiful as a snowy dawn, and no doubt the woman loved him. Showed him his children - strong and wise and powerful, the kingdoms of the West united and at peace. And with those bittersweet visions had come visions of Arwen's inevitable sorrow and regret if she had requited Aragorn's love, watching him grow old, watching him die, grief-stricken and alone. Galadriel had made it clear there would be no such fate for her grand-daughter. Not if he bore the reforged sword, not if he were king of the reunited lands, not if Elrond approved the match - Arwen did not love him, but even if she had, Galadriel would not see Arwen Undómiel in grief; would not see the light of the Evenstar fade. Not for Aragorn. Not for any Man, beloved of the Elves though he might be.

But if the lady of Lothlórien had thought to turn his heart from Arwen, she had failed, for hidden in Galadriel's refusal was the promise that Arwen might, one day, turn to him, and not as a sister. Beneath everything, that hope, that promise. For if there were no chance, why would Galadriel press him to abandon his love? As if he could. Why would she so oppose a match that her grand-daughter did not wish for? Could not sisterly love be transformed, as his childish love had transformed into the love of a man?

Galadriel feared it, and her fear gave him hope.

The woods of Lothlórien were cool, and smelled of earth and fresh growing things, sweet flowers and timelessness. Unchanging, tender and stern at once, like the Lady's eyes. The deep blue of the night was velvet and silk against Boromir's skin and he walked through the forest as if through the shadows of a memory not his own, his footsteps muffled in the mist. Never had he seen a place like this, in all his years; never had he felt such quietude, such stillness. The whisper of the Lady in his mind had been the touch of swan's down, cushioning him, if only for a moment, from the press and snatch of the thing that Frodo carried. For the first time since the council in Imladris, he had felt that he might see his home again, and the very notion had brought sudden tears to his eyes. No message had she for him, no counsel, no direction; just this: his city whole, his brother at his side. The terror of that night so many months ago had eased with her touch, the terror of his city falling, burning, as Osgiliath had, and he remembered only the solid form of Faramir with him, and the knowledge that the men who had died had done so defending all that they loved. There was peace in that, was there not? And in the knowledge that Gondor - that Minas Tirith - was not yet lost.

"Brother, would that you were by my side now," he murmured softly. "You would know how to love this place, where I am only a supplicant."

For he knew the Lady had read what was in his heart, and she had refused him. The Ring could not be used, even if it meant the fall of Gondor, the fall of the West. And Boromir both believed her, and did not.

And out of the mist, a form took shape. For the briefest of moments, Boromir fancied that it was Faramir indeed, come in answer to his summons as his brother always did.

Then he recognized the Ranger. A poor substitute for Faramir, he thought, but here in the velvet dark his heart softened towards the other, who seemed forlorn, even surrounded by the beauty of the woods, and the gentleness that dwelt there. Boromir was not accustomed to seeing the Ranger thus - indeed, was not accustomed to seeing anyone seem so alone. Grief, yes, was always close at hand in Gondor, with the servants of the Dark Lord so near, and so cruel. And fear, yes, and pain, though joy and mirth as well, however dark the age. But this mood, he was accustomed to only on his brother's face, and it had been with much effort and practice that he had learned the tricks to bring the other out of it.

The Ranger seemed so alone. Perhaps, he thought, a friendship could be reborn which had been lost in the dark of Moria.

"Aragorn," he said, stepping forward, and the other glanced around to find him, which was in itself strange enough, for he had assumed the Ranger had known of his presence, as he seemed to always know each leaf and branch and creature nearby. "I begin to see why you stayed so long with the Elves," he said, hoping to find some common ground. Aragorn loved the Elves, this much he had learned. "This place has enchantment. I know not how a man could leave if there were not a task as pressing as the one we undertake."

"The Elves possess enchantment indeed, my friend," said Aragorn. "Do not linger too long, or they will ensnare you as well," and though Aragorn was smiling as if at some jest, Boromir thought he detected bitterness in the tone of his companion's words.

"What is this?" asked Boromir gently. "Are you troubled tonight, here in this place where all cares seem only the whisper of a moment?"

Aragorn shook his head, smiling, though Boromir thought the smile was less of mirth and more of regret. "Some moments may last a lifetime, my friend," he said.

Boromir took another step forward, and said, "Perhaps, but more may be created to overshadow it, if one moment is too painful." He kept his voice gentle, as if he spoke to a skittish mount, and went on, "Come, I think you have been to this refuge before. Show me your Lothlórien. Put away your sorrow for a time."

Aragorn's smile faded, and he said softly, "Boromir, when the Lady looked into your eyes, what did you see?"

Startled to be asked what seemed so intimate a question, Boromir bit back a sudden sharp reply. Perhaps it did not seem so impertinent to the Ranger, who had spent so long with the Elves. After a moment, he said, "I saw little. My city, my brother. Peace." He glanced at Aragorn quizzically. "Is - did the Lady put this shadow on your heart?"

Shaking his head, Aragorn replied, "I cannot tell you," but Boromir was unsure whether the other meant he did not know, or would not say. After a moment Aragorn sighed. "I thank you for your offer of companionship, Boromir, but I fear I am no fit companion for anyone this night. Forgive me; I would be alone." And with the barest nod of his head, he vanished into the mists from which he had emerged.

Boromir made a small sound. "Rangers," he murmured irritably. "And not so altogether unlike Faramir after all, perhaps."

As they steered the boats away from Lothlórien, Boromir felt with each passing mile his need for the Ring grow stronger. It puzzled him, for Minas Tirith had had as great a need for such a weapon while he lingered with the Elves as she did now, and never in Lothlórien had he felt the tug of manipulation, nor the sense that what he felt was not what _he_ felt. No, only that under the gaze of the Lady, he had reconciled to the fact - for such he had believed it was - that the Ring could not be used.

But as the Golden Wood faded behind them, what sense of peace he had found there faded as well. Indeed, his desire, his _need_ for this weapon seemed to have doubled and redoubled, as if to make up for the time it had lost, and he could not keep his glance from straying to the Ringbearer. And to the Ranger, who would be king, and who had watched him warily through Moria, even in Lothlórien, and now again.

What king did Gondor need? he thought bitterly. A king who looked with such doubt on her sons? Boromir felt the weight of that gaze like a stone on his heart, and he scarcely recalled the journey to Moria, and the friendship they had shared until that long darkness had enfolded them.

Aragorn had noticed the change in his companion, despite his own despair; had seen in Moria the strength of his will, misplaced though it was; had seen the mistrust in those silver-grey eyes, and the other's need for the Ring growing; had seen his ease in Lothlórien even as his own fear and doubt had trapped him; had noticed the warrior's need return now they were in the boats. He thought only briefly on it, only so much as to think 'well, he is a Man, and the blood of the Númenor is dimmed in Gondor; perhaps that is the difference.' Once, he had considered how he might shield Boromir from the lure of that thing, but his own heart was too pressed by the freshness of loss, by the voice of his grandmother caressing his mind in the woods of Lothlórien. He had little strength to love another, for the love he had already given was not returned to him, and the well, deep though it was, was running dry.

And now, the Ringbearer sat before him in the boat, those small shoulders rounded, his head bowed, not seeing the beauty around them. What had the Lady shown him, he wondered, or was this all his grief at Gandalf's fall? Aragorn bowed his own head then, struck again and suddenly by the harsh fear he felt each time he remembered the wizard. How was he to do this thing? Carry the Ring to Orodruin, bring aid to Minas Tirith, effect the surrender of the stern-willed Captain to his own claim - for if Boromir accepted him not, then Denethor, Faramir - what chance was there that they would? And if they did not accept his claim, what then? Take Gondor by force. Seize the jewel, prove his worth. Oh, but the blood that would be shed, and he felt a sudden anguish - the blood of Men, the weakness of Men, the blood that the Evenstar loved and denied. Ah, shed the blood, let the rivers flow with it, and repulsed by his own despair he closed his heart to it, and wondered how to claim the love of the Gondorian, who watched him now with eyes of steel, when he could not claim it from one who knew his heart as if it were her own.

The Anduin swept by as swift and bright as she had ever done, and Boromir stood on the shore, shading his eyes and watching, waiting, though he knew not for what. Perhaps for the end; perhaps a beginning. He recalled Lothlórien, wished that he had re-made a friendship with the Ranger there. Wished the Ranger had not turned from him. Or - or that he had not said whatever had caused the Ranger to turn away.

Aragorn stood at the edge of the trees, watching Boromir as he gazed at the river. Broad back, dark hair, eyes that seemed ever expecting conflict. So like his father, and yet so unlike. After a moment Aragorn approached, came to stand beside the Gondorian. They stood together, watching the glittering water that flowed away towards Ithilien, which lay like a green jewel in the shadow of Mordor. After a time Aragorn said softly, "Tell me of your brother," and Boromir glanced at him, hiding his wariness.

"What do you wish to know?" he asked.

Aragorn shrugged, wondered if this attempt to draw the other out would be a waste of time and energy. But he had started, and he supposed he should continue. Perhaps a friendship, if they could retrieve it after the blackness of Moria, might lend Boromir strength, who seemed so alone in their company. Perhaps they might lend each other strength.

"Is he like to you?" he asked finally. "I have heard that you greatly resemble each other. Has he your skill with the blade?"

Boromir smiled, thinking of Faramir. "He can rarely best me, but there are few who can," he said. "He is Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien, and I think rivals you as a tracker. He might give the Elf a challenge with the bow, as well."

Aragorn chuckled. "Gandalf mentioned Faramir to me," he said, and his heart ached with the sudden memory of loss.

"Did he?" Boromir asked, surprised. He knew Faramir had seen in the wizard much to be admired, but he had not considered that the wizard might have been passing along news of Faramir to one such as this. "What did he say?"

"That your brother is a scholar," said Aragorn. "Little else. That he speaks some Elvish."

"Some sort of Elvish, or something akin to it," said Boromir. "All his Rangers do."

They stood in silence for a time, and then Boromir said, "Aragorn, why did you not tell me until Moria of your past in Gondor?"

Startled by the question, Aragorn did not answer at first. Remembered that night - or day, for who could tell in the blackness of that pit? - Boromir's sharp words, and his own sudden anger. The Gondorian's constant questioning of him - of he who had served the man's own grandfather and had rivaled Denethor in the elder's eyes - had finally broken through his reserve and he had told the other of his deeds under Ecthelion, had told of seeing the boy himself the day he was born. Even as the angry words had slipped from his lips he had regretted them, for only as he saw the other's eyes grow wide with shock, then with betrayal had he realized how precious were his memories of that time. And he had used them against the very one who embodied them.

"I knew not what might have been said of Thorongil in the passing years," he admitted finally. "I did not wish to threaten what bond had grown between us by mentioning the name of one I supposed you might have been taught to revile."

Boromir glanced away. He could not imagine this man to be Denethor's age, to say nothing of how impossible it was to envision himself so small and carried - carried! - in the arms of this northern Ranger. Yet he had spoken with the wizard, who had confirmed it, and loth as he had been to trust the old man himself, Faramir had revered him, and Boromir did not think his brother would have wasted time with one who lied.

And whence had come his mistrust of the wizard? Boromir tried to recall what had happened to plant the seed of doubt in his mind, but he could think of nothing. And now with the wizard gone, he felt strangely grieved not to have him near, but only this Ranger. A poor replacement he seemed, although apart from conceal his past, as any might have, Boromir could not recall what the Ranger had done either. Yet when he looked on the other, all he could see was deception.

"Boromir," said Aragorn finally. "I did not think to deceive you," and Boromir looked at him sharply, wondering if the other's time with the Elves had left him able to read thoughts as well. "My heart is troubled. It has been since," and he hesitated, "oh, since Elrond's council, I suppose." Though indeed, it had been much longer.

Boromir sighed. "Mine as well, Ranger," he said. "That weapon the Halfling carries has weighed heavy on my mind from the moment he brought it forth."

The Ring. The mention of it seemed to cast a pall over them both.

"In Lothlórien," said Boromir softly, "it seemed lessened. It seemed," and he hesitated, "it seemed as though the Lady stood between my heart and that thing, and my need for it grew less. If we cannot use it, I would that she had taken the desire from me all together."

Aragorn felt a sudden shiver of revulsion at the ease with which the Gondorian spoke of the Ring.

"And the Halfling seems so - so vulnerable," Boromir went on, his voice low, almost to himself. "I cannot but think that another might have been entrusted with it."

"One more able to defend it?" asked Aragorn sharply, "or one more willing to wield it?"

Boromir turned to him with a scowl. "Your temper will betray you, Ranger," he said, his tone equally sharp. "I did not speak of wielding it."

"The thought is always in your mind," Aragorn replied, "and in your heart."

"And not in yours?" the other asked archly.

Aragorn bit back a hard retort. "My mind and my heart are heavy enough without the burden of that thing," he replied, and like a shadow behind his eyes was the touch of the Evenstar, her warm hand on his skin, lips on his cheek. Had she only accompanied them, as he had asked, he knew what strength she would have given him, even if only as his sister.

He envied Boromir the love he shared with Faramir. If he could somehow transform his own love for the Evenstar back to the chaste brotherly affection she desired from him, that he had borne her as a child, or if he could win her heart as a lover... but he could do neither. And in the flame that made the shadow he saw the White City, and his own hand burning with cold fire.

"No," he said suddenly, his voice harsh, and he shook his head as Boromir turned to him.

"Search your heart more carefully," said Boromir, his voice low, and cold. "You may find we are more alike than you know."

Aragorn frowned, and resisted the urge to touch the man, or to strike him. "We are not. You still wish to use the Ring."

"I wish to use what means we have, whether it is fate or chance that brings it to us."

Shaking his head, Aragorn said, "We cannot, Boromir, you know this."

Angrily, the Gondorian turned to face him. "I know I have been told we cannot, Ranger," he replied. "But I have not yet been told _why_. No reason but the fears of the Elves and of an old wizard who was ancient when first I saw him and now is lost to us."

At the mention of Gandalf Aragorn's eyes grew cold. He had had enough of this Man and his arrogance, his mistrust, his insolence towards those he knew not. "The fears of the Elves and of Mithrandir should be reason enough for a Man of Gondor," he said, his voice low and stern. "For Gondor is ever in need of more wisdom than is possessed by Men."

With a snarl, Boromir turned away, back to the river. "Recall that _you_ are a Man as well as I, Ranger," he said sharply, "as well as any in Gondor, which you would seize." He glanced at the other out of the corner of his eye. "Would you be a tyrant, then, lording your wisdom over those less than you?"

Aragorn scowled. "I will be your king, Gondorian, whether you will it or no. Better to make yourself my ally than my enemy."

Boromir laughed, and the sound was bitter. "Leave me in peace, Ranger," he spat. "And if you would have us be allies, show me some part of the faith you would ask of me."

And suddenly Aragorn was in front of him. Boromir took a startled step back, but the Ranger reached for him and with a fist in his hair pulled him close. His eyes were as Boromir had not seen them before, and though he could have easily broken the other's grip he found he was rooted in place, his breath stopped in his throat, and he knew suddenly the wrath of a king.

Aragorn's voice was a growl when he spoke, low and velvet. "You have yet to earn my faith, soldier of Gondor, nor will you as long as you deny me. For who should submit first? the king to his subject, or the subject to prove himself worthy of the king?"

The blood had left Boromir's face; he felt as cold and pale as if death had taken him, and he brought one hand up to grip the arm of the man who held him. He trembled, and reviled his own weakness, and said, "Release me, or Gondor's king will die before he ever takes the throne."

But his threat was meaningless, and both men knew it, for Boromir was helpless as a child under that fell gaze.

A long moment passed, and then with a sudden snarl Aragorn thrust Boromir from him, and the Gondorian stumbled and almost fell, one knee giving way; it was with effort that he stopped his collapse. "You will kneel before me yet, son of Gondor," said Aragorn softly, then turned and walked back towards the camp.

Recovering his footing, Boromir watched the other go, his heart pounding in his chest, his mouth dry, his skin hot where the Ranger had touched him. The smell of power lingered in the air.

They had made camp in the fading light of the afternoon, and when Boromir returned from the shores of the Anduin, hardness and ill-will surrounded him like a pall. Aragorn, to escape it, took the task of gathering wood for the fire, though he doubted the wisdom of lighting one. But his heart weighed on him more heavily than stones, and after a time he found his footsteps had carried him far from camp, and he was weary beyond the telling of it. On the moss-covered trunk of a fallen tree he seated himself, and pressed his hands to shadowed eyes, and wished for peace. He had not meant to make an enemy of the warrior, had not meant to loose the power of his anger, his will on one whom he wished as an ally, but the disdain in the Gondorian's voice, the fire in his eyes had been a goad as surely as if the soldier had struck him. Aragorn closed his eyes, and pushed away the fear that tried to take him. Searched his heart for the one who could lend him strength.

A low groan escaped his throat as he tried to push those thoughts away. "I cannot," he murmured to himself, "I cannot." But what he could not do was unclear, even to himself.

Footsteps, and he glanced up to see the Ringbearer approaching. Aragorn felt his skin prickle, his fingers grow cold as the Halfling sat down next to him on the trunk of the fallen tree.

"I have not felt at peace since we left Lothlórien," Frodo said with a sigh.

"Nor have I," Aragorn replied wearily.

Glancing around as if to be sure they were alone, Frodo said cautiously, "Boromir is a valiant warrior. I know he would not try to hurt me when his mind is his own."

Aragorn looked at Frodo and said, "Has something happened?" If the Gondorian had attacked the Ringbearer, then Frodo would surely not be so unscathed, and yet Aragorn could not keep the fear from rising in his chest.

Frodo shook his head. "Not yet," he replied. "But I am afraid, Strider. For Boromir, and for myself if he should give in to his longing for the ... the thing I carry." The Halfling hesitated. "Perhaps you could speak with him?"

"I do not believe it would make a difference," Aragorn replied, but then hesitated. He did not want to admit to the frightened Halfling how hard the feelings had become between himself and the warrior. "Boromir would not do such a thing," he said finally, "and if he were no longer Boromir, then no words of mine - or of anyone's - would stay him." 

Legolas had said as much to Aragorn in Lothlórien, had spoken openly of his distrust of the Gondorian, and of how easily the burly man could seize the Ring if he chose to. Legolas had seemed a bare breath away from suggesting they should send Boromir on to Minas Tirith, expel him from their company for fear of what he might do. Indeed, for a moment Aragorn had thought the Elf had been going to suggest that Aragorn carry the Ring, and so protect it, but Legolas' suggestion remained unspoken, though Aragorn was sure he had seen it in those ancient eyes.

Surely it would be no more difficult for him to resist it when it was in his own hands than when it was in Frodo's. Aragorn knew he could take it even more easily than Boromir could if he chose, for the Halfling trusted him, but if he had not done so in all these days, what reason was there to believe he would in the next? And Boromir would be less willing to make an attempt on the Ranger, and less able to succeed if he did.

And surely if the Halfling had died of his wound, or had not stood forward to the task, surely Aragorn would have been the one to bear the burden. Surely so. Was it not his doom to defeat, as it had been his ancestor's to fall to?

He glanced at Frodo, uncertain if this was the decision he should make, but the Halfling's bent shoulders and weariness pulled at him, and he wanted to hold him, carry him if he could. Carry his burden, at least, for a time, and give him respite from his fears. "Frodo," he said softly. "I, too, am concerned for our friend, but moreso for you, if he loses his battle."

Frodo managed a humourless laugh. "You do not reassure me, Strider," he said.

"I do not mean to," the Ranger replied. "Boromir is a good man," he went on, "an honourable man, but the Ring is treacherous, and if it claims him fully, he might -" and Aragorn hesitated, assailed by a sudden and unwelcome vision of the Gondorian wresting the Ring from Frodo's grasp; a sudden, terrible vision of the Ringbearer bloodied and still. "He might do you an injury," he finished softly.

Frodo made a small sound, his eyes on his own trembling hands. "How can I do this, Strider?" he asked softly, an unutterable weariness in his voice, and his small shoulders drawn in as though under the weight of mountains. "I should leave the company. I will bring ruin and death to us all."

Aragorn felt cold at the thought of Frodo going alone into the rank foulness of Mordor, and he shook his head. "There is no need, Frodo," he said. "You have sacrificed too much already, and I would not have you leave my protection for a lonely journey into death. If you are willing," he said gently, the words slipping almost of their own will from his lips, "I will bear the burden for you for a time. Boromir will not find me so tempting a target."

"Would you?" Frodo asked, looking at Aragorn with wide, weary eyes. "Could you, I mean? Would it not call to you as it does to him?"

"Its call to me is little more than a whisper," he answered. "I am twice Boromir's age, and have spent so long fighting the Enemy and my own desires that I dare say it is easier now to fight than to surrender." He smiled, feeling suddenly that this was indeed the right path. How could the Halfling bear such a burden and not crumble? And how could he stand to see this innocence fail? "I can do this for you, Frodo," he said. Frodo gazed up at him with tired eyes, and Aragorn felt his breath catch in his throat at the sadness he saw there. "Let me help you, my friend," he said. "Let me help you."

Boromir glanced up from his sword when the Ranger and the Ringbearer returned to camp. Under careful strokes from the stone, his blade had regained its sharpness, and across that razor edge Boromir saw first the Ringbearer, the Halfling who carried the weight of Gondor's salvation around his neck. He braced himself for the familiar ache that always came.

But it did not.

Wary, and surprised, Boromir looked from Frodo to Aragorn and was struck by a sudden certainty: the Ring had changed hands. But no, that was not possible. Boromir met Aragorn's eyes and saw in them everything Elrond and the wizard had said, saw in that gaze the utter impossibility of using the Ring. And beneath it, he saw triumph. Perhaps it was triumph in refusing the gift Frodo would have made of the Ring; perhaps it was something darker.

He held Aragorn's gaze for a long moment, testing, but finally, unresolved, he dropped his eyes back to the sword. 'I am mistaken,' he thought to himself. 'The Ranger would not take it, even were Frodo willing to surrender it.' He ran the stone along the steel, feeling the velvet rasp of it beneath his hands. 'I am mistaken.'

But he knew he was not.


	3. This is the fault of Men

It was true, Aragorn thought as he gazed out at the night. The Ring did not seem to be any greater a burden around his own neck than it had seemed when it had graced the Halfling's. Indeed, its whisper seemed lessened, somehow; he did not recall feeling so sure of himself since the wizard fell.

He glanced towards Boromir, who lay wrapped in his cloak a short way from the banked fire, unmoving, his dark hair a deeper shadow in the night, and no other part of him visible. The warrior had seemed uncertain from the moment Aragorn and Frodo had returned to camp. Boromir had looked first at the Ringbearer, as he always did, but his glance had changed from expectant to confused, and then he'd turned to Aragorn. Aragorn had met his gaze without wavering, and had seen the Gondorian's expression turn to one of alarm, and finally disbelief before the man had dropped his eyes and gone back to sharpening his sword. 

Surely if he had guessed the truth he would have spoken. But he had done nothing, had said nothing.

Even in the dark, Aragorn's sharp eyes could make out the steady rise and fall of the warrior's chest, but it seemed to Aragorn that Boromir was not asleep. He breathed evenly enough, but not deeply, and Aragorn wondered why he feigned.

He shook his head slightly. 'Why so suspicious?' he thought to himself. 'Why suppose he feigns? Perhaps he is merely wakeful.' Aragorn watched the other for a time, but Boromir neither moved, nor did his breathing deepen. Finally, Aragorn said softly, "Boromir."

Nothing.

"Boromir," Aragorn repeated. "Come here."

At that, Boromir shifted, turned his face to look at Aragorn. "What is it?" he whispered.

"Come here," Aragorn said again, fighting off a flash of irritation at how slow the man was to obey. 'He is not my subject yet,' he thought.

After a moment Boromir rose, and stepped carefully and quietly to where Aragorn was, pulling his cloak more closely around himself against the cold night. "What is it, Ranger?" he asked apprehensively, and was startled by the black look that flickered across Aragorn's face.

"Call me by my name," Aragorn said, his voice hard, surprising them both, "or call me 'my liege,' but do not speak to me as though I am unworthy of respect from the Steward's eldest son."

Boromir scowled, not prepared to confront the change in the man for fear of waking the others, who were all as tired as either of them. "Why do you rouse me?" he asked in a sharp whisper, ignoring the implicit threat. "It is not yet my watch."

"You were not sleeping," said Aragorn, trying to soften his tone, for he had not intended to speak so sternly to the other, despite his irritation. When had he objected to being called Ranger? for he was, and was proud to be, and king by birth, yes, but not yet by decree. But the insolence in the Gondorian's tone had pricked him, and anger had welled up in the spot. Surely by now he deserved some measure of respect from the man.

"I was resting," Boromir answered. "I could not sleep. Did you call me over here to ask if I was awake? for surely when I answered you it would have been clear enough."

Aragorn fixed Boromir with a penetrating gaze, not liking how willing the man was to show his own annoyance. "What keeps you wakeful?" he asked archly.

"I know not," Boromir replied, then looked at Aragorn closely, and saw something in the other he could not place. Something of the power that had struck him like a blow by the shore of the river, but banked, smouldering. No, something else was there - something that did not seem wholesome.

For his part, Aragorn felt his anger returning, and he let it come, a welcome respite from the longing for his foster-sister that played like a constant tune beneath all else. 'Resting,' he thought. 'Waiting his chance, more likely.' "If you were planning to take the Ring from the Halfling, by force or by design," he said, and Boromir stepped back from him, made apprehensive by the steely tone of the other's voice, "then you should abandon your plan, for he no longer bears it."

Boromir felt that cold take him again, felt the shiver of that power, and with it, beneath it, like the fragrance of rotting flowers, was the smell of that foul and needful thing. "I knew it," he murmured, staring at the Ranger. "The moment you returned to camp, I knew what you had done, though I did not wish to believe it." He shook his head, fury etched on his features but his voice still low. "You, who were so determined that I should not use it for Gondor, have now taken it for your own ends?"

Aragorn tensed, certain for a moment that Boromir was going to strike him and almost relishing the thought. "Not for my own ends," he replied tersely, "but to save you from yours. You will not steal it so easily from me."

"I would not steal it at all!" Boromir spat, then turned from Aragorn and started back to his blankets, but suddenly Aragorn's hand was on his shoulder, spinning him around and pushing him against the trunk of a tree. His head cracked sharply against it, and before he could block the unexpected attack, Aragorn's arm was pressed hard to his throat.

His face twisted with anger, Aragorn said, "I see your eyes when you look on the Ringbearer," his voice low and fierce. "I saw you born, Gondorian. I know what is in your heart."

Wrenching downward on the trapping arm and twisting to the side, Boromir escaped Aragorn's hold and stepped quickly back. "If you do then it is because you share it, Ranger," he replied in an angry whisper, his gaze flickering over the still-sleeping forms of their companions. "You, whom the Elves name 'hope,'" he said, bringing his gaze back to Aragorn's and struggling against fear, sharp as copper in his mouth. "You have taken the Ring and broken your oath! No fit king, nor fit companion." And though unwilling to turn his back on the other, he did, shaking with anger, and went back to his place by the fire, expecting all the while to hear the rasp of a drawn blade behind him, for there was something mad in the Ranger's eyes, and Boromir recognized it.

Aragorn felt rage seething up in him as he watched the Gondorian stalk back to his bedroll, but he did not follow, nor call the other back, and like shadows from a flame he saw a sudden vision of the arrogant soldier kneeling before him, begging - though for what, Aragorn did not know, and with a shiver of revulsion he pushed the image from his mind, and with it his rage.

When, some time later, he woke Boromir to take watch, he opened his mouth to apologize, but at the other's black and angry gaze, Aragorn's own anger returned. He fought the urge to strike him, and instead simply watched him rise and take his place as guardian of the company for the next few hours of the night.

Then Aragorn moved silently back to his own blankets and lay down, pulling his cloak around him tightly, but with sleep came only unwelcome visions of Boromir's surrender, of fire and ash, Minas Tirith at his feet, and of the dark hair and smooth, pale skin of the Evenstar.

Frodo approached Aragorn upon rising, and Aragorn felt a chill pass over him, and again had to push away quick anger. The dreams had shaken him, and left him tense, and irritable, and he struggled to control his emotions. "Aragorn," Frodo began, "I think I have made a mistake." His large eyes were hollow with weariness.

"Mistake?" asked Aragorn, trying to keep his voice gentle. "How so, friend?"

Frodo seemed apprehensive, and shifted his weight nervously. "I believe I am strong enough to bear the Ring, Aragorn. Would you - " and he hesitated, startled by the sudden dark flash of Aragorn's eyes.

"Would I what, Halfling?" Aragorn asked sharply. "Do you mistrust me now as well?"

"No, no," Frodo said quickly, eyes wide. "No, of course not, but - but I feel the burden must be mine, and I - it does not feel right," he said, dropping his gaze, "that thing not around my own neck."

Aragorn knelt in front of Frodo, sudden realization striking him, and sorry for his sharpness to his already troubled comrade, whom he only wished to help. "Frodo, my friend," he said gently, "do you not see? That is the Ring's deception." He shook his head, placing a hand on Frodo's trembling shoulder. "No, dear Frodo, I would not give you this burden back. It would take you," he said, sadness overwhelming him, and fear for this innocent, who should never have had to shoulder such a burden. How could Elrond, how could Gandalf - how could he himself have ever allowed it? The burden was the fault of Men; it must be borne by Men.

"Can you not see?" he continued. "If scarcely a night without it causes you to come to me and beg it back, can you not see that you are not strong enough? Oh, Frodo," he said, his voice grieved, "we should never have asked it of you. This is the fault of Men; you should be free from this terrible task, and back in the sweet hills of your home."

Frodo was surprised to see tears in the man's eyes, and though his heart called to him to take the Ring back, he felt suddenly ashamed of what he'd been thinking only moments ago. Aragorn had not deceived him, and if his own longing for the Ring was so strong, perhaps the man was right, and he should not bear it.

Aragorn stood then, his hand still on Frodo's shoulder, and turned to find Boromir standing scant feet away, watching the exchange, his eyes narrow, his expression grim.

"You should return it to the Ringbearer, Aragorn," he said in a low, tight voice

Aragorn shook his head. "So you might seize it more easily?" he asked. Around them the others were waking, and silent as a cat Legolas emerged from the trees behind Boromir.

Boromir did not turn at the approach of the Elf, though he tensed. "I do not wish to seize it," he replied. "Have I not had ample opportunity?"

The other Halflings were out of their bedrolls now and watching the confrontation uneasily; Gimli, nearby, looked from one man to the other as though sizing each of them up, his gaze finally falling on Legolas, who moved to stand beside Aragorn.

"Estel," said the Elf softly, "what has happened here?"

"Your 'Hope' has taken the Ring," Boromir said flatly.

"Boromir," said Aragorn, ignoring Legolas' sudden pallor, "you know that the longer you travel in its shadow the more difficult it becomes for you to resist its lure."

"I know no such thing," he replied sharply, the lie coming too easily to his lips for his own comfort, but he continued, heedless. "I know only that you now possess that which you assured me would destroy any who bore it."

"Any who wielded it," said Aragorn, "and I do not wield it."

"Yet," Boromir replied.

Aragorn shook his head sadly. "I cannot do otherwise, Boromir," he said. "The Ring must be safeguarded, and Frodo is too easy a target if it claims you utterly." He turned to Legolas. "Fear not, my friend," he said, and smiled, placing a gentle hand to the Elf's cheek. "I shall not fall."

"Isildur's heir," said Boromir, "with Isildur's weakness."

Aragorn rounded on him and said angrily, "This, from one whose constant watchful eyes have caused the Ringbearer to ask me to take this burden from him?"

"And now he has asked you to give it back!" Boromir said, his voice rising, though his hand had not yet dropped to the hilt of his sword.

"That is only further proof that it must not be his," Aragorn replied. "Why should an innocent bear the evil that the weakness of Men has inflicted on the world? How _can_ he?"

"Because he is an innocent, Estel," said Legolas, placing his hand on his friend's arm, "with all the strength of the innocent."

"I will not falter, Legolas," Aragorn said, turning to look at his friend, his eyes sad. How could Legolas not understand? Surely he could be made to understand. "My friend," he said gently, "you yourself have been ever as concerned as I about what might happen. Do you not think that the bearer of the reforged sword is better suited to defend this evil from those who would take it than is a Halfling, however sturdy?" He turned fully towards the Elf then, raising his hand again to cradle that face of silky angles. Legolas felt the warmth in Aragorn's hand, the gentleness, and almost pressed into the caress, so few soft touches had there been since he had left the home of his father. "We take the Ring to Mordor," Aragorn said, "and we go to destroy it. Naught has changed but who protects it. Trust in me, as you have," he said gently. 

Legolas seemed far away, and Aragorn stroked his thumb across the sweet plane of his cheekbone. He would need this one's support against the Gondorian, if worse came to worst. "Please, mellon nîn," he whispered, "trust in me."

Legolas gazed at him for a long moment, then finally nodded. "Perhaps you are right," he said.

Boromir snorted in derision and both Aragorn and Legolas turned to him. "He is not right, Elf, and well you know it. Loyalty blinds you."

"As greed blinds you, Gondorian," said Legolas.

"Do you know," said Boromir, ignoring Legolas' tone, "that since Aragorn took possession of that cursed trinket, I have felt barely a whisper of desire for it?" His smile was without humour. "Indeed, on this cold morning I would sooner steal the Ranger's cloak than that circle of gold, for at least its warmth is wholesome, if a bit ripe. I wonder why the desire has left me," he said thoughtfully. "Perhaps it has found meeter prey."

Aragorn's eyes narrowed and he took a step forward. Boromir stepped back in turn, and now his hand did fall to his sword, a motion Aragorn did not fail to see. The Ranger smiled grimly. "Perhaps the desire has left you, friend," he said, though there was nothing friendly in his demeanor. "Never the less, I would not like to set the Ring out on a stump and wait to see if you might take it after all."

Boromir's breath caught in his throat at the glint in Aragorn's eyes. It was the same feral light that Denethor's had when he had spent long hours in the upper chamber of the Tower, and neither Boromir nor Faramir nor any other chose to be with him then if not summoned. But Denethor, for all his ferocity, did love his sons; this Ranger wanted only his submission, and Boromir did not wish to find himself drawing swords against him. Not with the Elf at the Ranger's side, and the Dwarf at the Elf's. And it appeared that if he did not retreat, he would have to fight. 

He recalled Faramir, and his brother's own tactical retreats from their father's wrath; recalled promising to return home to him, as well.

He lowered his gaze, and released the hilt of his blade. The words came hard, but he forced them out. "Forgive me, Aragorn," he said. "I am weary. I should not have spoken so."

As the mists of morning vanish in the brightness of the sun, Aragorn's anger dissipated at the Gondorian's quiet words, and with a smile he came forward and clapped his hand to the nape of Boromir's neck, drawing him close in an unconscious echo of their hard confrontation the previous day. "We are all weary, my friend," he said. "I, too, spoke harshly, and for that, I am sorry. Let us not argue, for we have the same goal, and far to go to reach it." With that, Aragorn cupped Boromir's chin in his other hand and raised his lowered head.

His hand was warm, and strong, the bones like the bones of Denethor's hand and for a moment Boromir wondered if the Ranger intended to embrace him or snap his neck; he was not sure he could prevent either action. And unable to do otherwise, he met Aragorn's gaze. In those grey eyes now, Boromir saw none of that fey gleam, but there was that flash of ... something. Something of his power, and something akin to hope, but beneath it, as though buried in silt at the bottom of a clear river, something else, something Boromir did not want to name, and sudden bile rose in the back of his throat. He swallowed hard, and forced his lips to return the smile. "You are right, of course," he replied. "We have strife enough ahead of us; let us not carry it with us as well."

Aragorn smiled, brushing his fingers across the skin of Boromir's cheek, and the feeling was like the air before a storm. 

Aragorn turned then to the Halflings, who had watched this exchange with trepidation. "You have sacrificed too much," he said, moving to stand before them, and Boromir thought Pippin shrank back a bit from him, gazing up with eyes that betrayed little, but his arms crossed in front of his chest, and his hand resting on his knife. Boromir almost smiled to think of the youngster trying to defend himself against the Ranger, but the smile quickly faded. The image was not as impossible as it would have seemed a day before.

"Galadriel will welcome you back to Lothlórien, if you would go," Aragorn said, "or you could pass into Rohan and perhaps find favour there, and means to return to the Shire from either haven. There is no need for you to risk your lives further, and I would have you safe, not stranded in the wilderness with ones who may not be able to protect you."

"But who shall see them safe there?" asked Gimli. "We cannot set them loose to find their way back to Lothlórien or to Rohan alone."

Aragorn smiled at Gimli then, and said, "You could take them, friend Dwarf. I will miss your axe," he went on at Gimli's doubtful look, "but evasion is our course now, not battle, for we are too few to defend against the companies that will be set against us. Go, and protect the Halflings."

"We need no protecting," said Merry, though the quaver in his voice betrayed him, "and this is Frodo's decision, I think."

"Aye, it is at that," said Sam, and they turned to the one who had borne the Ring.

Frodo seemed shaken, and pale, and did not respond to their questioning gazes.

Finally, Aragorn said gently, "Can you not see how weary he is? Do not ask more of him," and he knelt in front of Sam, who looked at him warily. Aragorn smiled. "You have never trusted me quite, have you, Samwise?" he asked.

"Well, I think you've done us fair enough so far," he said, "but it's my master I'm concerned with more than anything."

Aragorn nodded. "As you should be," he said. "You are as loyal and true a friend as anyone could hope for." He paused, then, and glanced at Frodo, and Sam's eyes could not help but follow. The Ringbearer - for such he would always be, wherever the Ring itself went - was sitting with his face in his hands, and Aragorn looked back at Sam then, and said, "Take him away from here, Samwise. Take him where he can rest."

With another glance at Frodo, Sam finally nodded. "Lothlórien, then," he said. "He seemed to find it peaceful enough there. We all did, and it might be that the Elves could give him a measure of peace again."

Gimli smiled slightly and clapped Sam on the shoulder. "Lothlórien," he said. "I shall see you safe there, if you'll have me."

The look of relief on Sam's face was invitation enough.

Boromir felt as though a stone were suddenly pressing on his chest, and he watched in disbelief as the Halflings and the Dwarf gathered up their belongings and prepared to depart. Finally, unable to contain himself, he said, "Have you all gone mad?"

They stopped and turned to him.

Boromir shook his head. "What is this insanity? The Ringbearer surrenders the Ring to Isildur's heir, and now all five of you are ready to return to Lothlórien as if there is no quest, and Gimli!" and he turned to the Dwarf. "I had not thought you so quick to surrender to such a plan."

"Oh, come now," said Gimli, "'tis not such a bad plan at that."

"The Halflings should not continue to risk their lives when there is no need," said Aragorn, his voice low, but brooking no resistance. "They should return, and we will finish the task we have begun."

Boromir shot him an angry glance. "I wonder what your esteemed Elrond, or the wizard would say of this turn?"

"They are not here to ask," Aragorn replied, his gaze narrowing, and Boromir saw that light in his eyes again, fey and feral. Fear coiled in his guts, and he struggled not to retreat. How could the Ranger have this effect? King, Ranger, companion, brother-in-arms - none of these could explain the crackle of power that surged around the man.

"If the Fellowship is scattered," Boromir said, willing his voice not to waver and trying to keep his wits about him, "then I shall return to my city, where I am needed, and await your coming."

The words struck Aragorn like a fist, though he knew not why. The Gondorian's desire for the Ring had been a constant worry to Aragorn, and it was true there had been times he'd questioned the wisdom of traveling with the man, but to hear him speak so casually of abandoning the quest - of abandoning him to his fate in Mordor with none but the Elf and his own destiny to give him hope of coming out again - it was not to be borne. It would be difficult enough with only three, and he would not allow the Gondorian to shirk his duty to his king and his people.

"You are needed _here_," he said angrily, crossing the distance between them in long strides, catching Boromir off guard and gratified to see the man retreat before him until they two were pressed again to the trunk of a tree. There was panic in Boromir's eyes, and they flickered past his shoulder before returning to his own and being held there. 

Aragorn smiled. "It appears I shall ever have your back to something," he said softly, and Boromir scowled.

"Do not press me, Ranger," he replied.

"Do not give me reason to, Captain," Aragorn said, tracing one finger along the line of the other's jaw, and Boromir winced as though pained.

"Step back," Boromir said, but could not raise his voice above a whisper.

"Or?"

Aragorn's eyes caught Boromir's and held them, piercing him like blades, keeping him in place. And in the Ranger's eyes Boromir saw again that flash of something, something buried in the silt, waiting. A glitter of power. Boromir's skin felt hot where that finger traced a path, and he finally found voice enough to say, "I - we have been friends, I think, and brothers in arms," and he hesitated. Aragorn watched him, smiling softly, but did not dispute it. "I speak as one such, now," Boromir went on cautiously, "who would ever guard your back in battle, and keep your faith as you keep mine." That fear rising up from its nest in his gut, he met Aragorn's eyes and said with what strength he could gather, "Give the Ring back to Frodo, Aragorn. It harms you."

Aragorn scarcely moved, now stroking Boromir's throat gently and causing waves of fear, and of something equal parts revulsion and desire to shudder through Boromir's body. He closed his eyes, hoping to escape it, but Aragorn said quietly, "Look at me, Captain," his voice as soft as the petals of flowers that rotted in still water. Unwilling to do anything that might provoke the creature before him, who wore the face and form of the man he had traveled with for so long, and for so long had denied, he obeyed. "You would keep my faith now?" he asked. "Do I have your fealty now, with my hand at your throat, only to lose it when your will is your own again?" He paused, his gaze growing languorous. "You will not take it, Boromir of Gondor." The edge on his voice was sharp and cold, and belied the heat of his hand. 

"My will is my own now," said Boromir sharply, struggling not to shrink away from that caressing touch, "and as for the trinket you carry, I no longer wish it, for I see what it does to you."

At that the Ringbearer's eyes narrowed and his hand tightened, a low growl rising in his throat, and Boromir knew he had overstepped. Softening his tone he continued quickly, "But if you do not trust me, then I will leave the company and you may return it to the Ringbearer without fear. I swear to you that I will not trouble you again, if only you will return the Ring to Frodo."

Boromir hesitated then, confused by what he was seeing in the other's eyes. He had thought Aragorn would have given much to see the back of him, but now....

Anger boiled up in Aragorn as he listened to this whelp make promises and beg him to return a Ring of power - _the_ One Ring - to a Halfling. "You have always been one to demand too much, Boromir son of Denethor," he said. "I will bear the Ring, and you and I and the Elf will go into Mordor, to Mount Doom, and there consign this evil to the fires that made it. And you will not return to Minas Tirith until we come there together." His eyes were hard, and he leaned close, his breath hot on Boromir's skin. "Men kept this evil in the world," he said softly, "and Men will destroy it. Do you understand me, Captain?"

Gimli eyed the two men thoughtfully from his distance, and considered, only briefly, going with them into Mordor after all. He was loath to lose the company of the Elf and the Gondorian, whom he had come to regard as friends somewhat moreso than the Ranger, who was a bit too taciturn for friendship. But neither could he bring himself to let the Halflings go into the wilderness alone.

And Lothlórien.... The memory of Galadriel would have lured him back to the Golden Wood even if the safety of the Halflings had not, but though he felt this was the right thing to do - let Men bear the burden for which Men were responsible, and let the Halflings return to their lives - yet something was amiss. It itched at him like an insect, touching his mind and wriggling, but vanishing when he tried to find it.

After a moment he turned to Legolas. "Master Elf," he said, "do you wish to return to Lothlórien, or would you go with your friend and the Captain into Mordor?"

Legolas glanced at the two Men, then turned to Gimli. "Take the Halflings," he said softly. "I will stay with Aragorn, for I fear what the Ring does to him, and what the Man might do."

But Gimli did not have the chance to ask which Man Legolas meant, for they were returning, and Gimli read fear in the lowered gaze of the Gondorian, and anger in his posture, and he wondered what had passed between them.


	4. Eastward

**Return to the Golden Wood**

They entered Lothlórien at dusk, and seeing how weary the Halflings were, Gimli agreed they could stop for a time just inside the borders of the land. "But we should not linger," he said. "The sooner we find our erstwhile hosts, the happier I think we shall all be."

"Then be glad of heart," came a voice from the trees, and there emerged two grey-clad Elves from the shadows, "for you have found them, or they have found you."

Gimli turned, a grin spreading across his broad features at the familiar voice, and scarcely wondering at the fact that not so long ago, he would have been hardly more pleased to see an Elf than one of the Black Riders. "Haldir!" he said, "and Orophin, well met!" and he came forward to clasp their hands as Merry and Pippin followed behind.

"Well met indeed," said Haldir, kneeling down to greet the Hobbits as well, of whom he had become somewhat fond during their stay in the wood. "But some mischance must have befallen you," he said. "Where are your companions?" He hesitated then, and looked towards Frodo and Sam, who had not approached nor offered greetings of their own. Frodo was seated on the ground, and Sam stood beside him; both were pale, and Sam's hand rested protectively on his master's shoulder. Sam met Haldir's gaze uncertainly.

"The Ringbearer," said Haldir. "What ill fortune brings you here rather than eastward towards the Ring's destruction?"

"The Ring has changed hands," said Gimli. "Aragorn now carries it to Orodruin, with Legolas and Boromir."

An expression flickered over Haldir's face which Gimli could not read, and he spoke quickly in Elvish to Orophin, who just as quickly melted back into the trees. Haldir turned to Gimli.

"The Lady must know of this," Haldir said. "I have sent Orophin with word, and we must follow as soon as we can. But I have glad tidings," he said then, as if to ease the sternness that had coloured his voice. "Mithrandir fell, yes, but he has been returned to us! He rests in Caras Galadhon, and will be glad to see you, though I know not what he will make of your news."

It did not seem possible to Frodo that he was sitting quietly with the wizard - white-robed now instead of grey, but still his Gandalf, lost no longer, arisen from the depths of Moria - telling him of his failure.

He sighed, and Gandalf reached out to touch his hand. "I did not mean it, Gandalf," he said wearily. "Or, rather, I did, but I only meant to -" and he sighed again and shook his head. "I do not know what I meant to do," he said at last. "Keep it and be rid of it both, I suppose. For though it wore upon me, I did want to possess it," he said, raising his eyes to the wizard's. "I did, though I tried to pretend I did not. The closer we came to Mordor, the more it wore upon me, and the more it seemed to sound in my heart."

"You were beset from without and within, Frodo," said Gandalf gently. "You should not have surrendered it, that is true, but there may yet be a way to wring good from this ill."

Stung, although the wizard had been far gentler than Frodo had been to himself, Frodo replied, "Why should it have been left to me to carry it, anyway? Might not Strider have been right to say Men should destroy this thing, which Men kept in the world?"

"Men are poor choices for a task such as this," Gandalf said. "Even one as stern of will as Aragorn. Perhaps especially so, for he has great power and strength of his own, and great desire to do good. The Ring may turn these things against him, as it did his ancestor."

"As it did when I told him of my fears, and let him see my weariness," said Frodo sadly. "He asked if I should like him to carry it for a time, as I suppose I knew he might, or I hoped. And I agreed. Oh, Gandalf, when did I become such a fool?"

Gandalf squeezed his hand gently. "Aragorn wished to help you," he replied, "and you wished for succour. If any has been a fool, perhaps it has been me, to give such a terrible task to so vulnerable a company."

"Vulnerable?" said Frodo, wondering what the wizard could mean. "I can see why you would say that of me, or my cousins and Sam, but the others?" he said, puzzled. "Such steadfast warriors? How can you call them weak?"

"Oh, I do not, Frodo," said Gandalf, shaking his head. "Nor would I call you sturdy Halflings weak. No, you may be the strongest of us all, though you do not feel it now. No," he went on, "not weak. But the Men carry within them the threads of their own undoing - Aragorn his love for the Evenstar, and Boromir his love of Gondor, which surpasses all in his heart save perhaps his brother."

Frodo glanced at his hands in his lap, where his fingers twisted and twined together. He wished to reach for the Ring, which had left a cold and hollow place in his chest. "I do not understand, Gandalf," he said finally. "How can love be their undoing? Surely love would be their salvation."

"Love can lead us to both good and ill, Frodo," he said, "you must know that."

Shaking his head, Frodo replied, "I only know that love has been my salvation, and has never led me to do ill. Had I loved Strider more, perhaps I would not have passed this burden to him so gratefully." He hesitated then, and said, "But Strider has Legolas with him - surely Legolas can help him defeat that thing, as Sam has helped me."

"Let us hope so," Gandalf said. "But now we must consider what to do. You tell me they travel down the Anduin, towards Ithilien and thence into Mordor, though by what path they have not yet decided. They will find Boromir's brother, I think, and Faramir may right this thing if it has not righted itself."

"How?" asked Frodo. "And how could it right itself? If I were truly the one to whom this task was appointed, and I surrendered it, how can things be righted?" He shook his head, some of his strength seeming to return to him as he spoke. "Should I not pursue them?" he asked. "Should I not undo the wrong I have done?"

Gandalf did not answer at first, and as the silence stretched thin, Frodo began to be afraid again, and he took a breath and steeled himself. In his mind, the Shire lay like everything cool and green and growing, everything worth saving in the world. Bag End, and the bright garden, sunflowers and snapdragons and nasturtiums glowing red and gold in the afternoon, and the sweet smell of earth and flowers, and the teapot coming to a boil. He recalled the vision he'd seen in Galadriel's mirror, that single eye, rimmed in fire, seeking, seeking him out, as it must now seek for Strider, who would walk into Mordor with none but Legolas and a man who had little love for him, and with little hope of walking out again. Frodo shuddered involuntarily, and Gandalf turned to him as though surprised to find him still there.

"Much is yet to be done, Frodo Baggins," he said. "If you pursue them into Ithilien and Mordor, you might find them, but what then? Slip in and steal it from around the Ranger's neck? Take it by force?"

"What, then?" asked Frodo. "What must I do to -" and his voice broke. "What must I do to protect what I love?" A thought struck him suddenly. "Gandalf," he said, "what of the Elves? Could they not be persuaded to help?"

Gandalf looked at him, his fathomless eyes calm. "What would you have them do?" he asked.

Frodo shook his head, words tumbling out of his mouth before he'd quite had a chance to think about them, and he said, "I cannot take the Ring, no, I know, he is far stronger than I, and Boromir would - I think he still may want it for himself, but could not the Elves, could they not," and he hesitated, suddenly realizing where his thoughts had led him, and he shuddered again. "Could they not speak with him?" he said at last, though it had been a different plan which had almost escaped his lips.

"Persuade him of his folly?" asked Gandalf. "No, I think not, my young friend. But was that what you set out to ask?"

After a moment Frodo shook his head. "No, I admit it Gandalf, a terrible thought took hold of me, worse than any the Ring put in my head. I did not mean it."

"Did you not?" Gandalf asked. "Even for the Shire?"

Frodo did not answer, watching his hands twist in his lap.

"There are those in this place," said Gandalf then, "both strong enough and willing to wrest the Ring from Aragorn, or even to put death through his heart from afar if need demanded. But can good come from an evil action?"

Frodo was silent for a long time. Strider, his friend, his guardian, had taken from him - no, no, that was not right; had accepted what he himself had offered - the one thing Aragorn should never have touched. And now the Shire was threatened, and Frodo had a sudden thought of the garden in flames, not merely aflame with the beauty that Sam tended there.

And he recalled the look that had passed across Aragorn's face when Frodo had started to ask for the Ring back. That black look, angry and implacable.

"Perhaps not good," he said finally, "but if love can lead to ill, then perhaps one evil act could tear us loose from a course which can lead only to the end of everything."

Gandalf did not answer, but gazed long at Frodo, and thoughtfully, and Frodo considered what he had himself suggested, as though it had come from a heart not his own. Had he really thought to murder Strider?

But the Shire, with its cool green hills, great blue skies, and velvet dark nights lit by all the stars. Neat little hobbit-holes, and merry people, and fine ale and pipeweed, and laughing hobbit-children. If Aragorn claimed the Ring, what would become of the Shire? Surely Aragorn would not destroy that. Surely not.

**Eastward**

With only the three of them, they moved fast, traveling long into the night and waking early to begin again. When they came at last to Nen Hithoel they unloaded the boats on the western shore and praised the Elves for their light workmanship, carrying boats and provisions down the long North Stair.

The path was narrow and steep, the boats awkward to manage, and more than once Boromir cursed that they had not simply sent the things over the Rauros Falls and hoped to catch them unbroken beneath. Still, each step brought them closer to his home, and to where Faramir's Rangers kept watch on the Black Lands.

"The River will carry us to Ithilien," he said after a time to the two who laboured below him on the path. "My brother and his men will give us rest, and respite there. They will have news of the Enemy, and may know how we might -"

But Aragorn turned then, and his fierce expression stopped Boromir's voice. "You think to enlist your brother's aid in this?" he said angrily.

Boromir halted where he was, and said, "Why would we not? Faramir -"

"Is no doubt of his brother's mind," said Aragorn, "but do not think that a Southern Ranger can wrest this burden from me any more than you will be able to."

Surprise was written across the Gondorian's features, and for a moment Aragorn wondered if he had misjudged. But no, for while the wizard's affection for the younger of Denethor's sons was enough for Aragorn to trust that the youth would be wiser than his brother, yet Aragorn knew that Boromir would hope to convince the younger that the Ring should be used.

But the journey was long, and Ithilien's Rangers would have knowledge they needed. And surely Faramir would be easy to control, once he had been made to understand.

"We will go to Ithilien," said Aragorn, his tone steely, his eyes dark, "but your brother will not aid you in taking this thing."

Stunned into silence, Boromir tried to formulate a response, but for all his efforts the only response that seemed enough would be to match the violence in the Ranger's voice and eyes with violence of his own. And there seemed little good that could come of that.

They reached the foot of the Stair scarcely before nightfall, and in the deepening dark they made camp. 

Boromir chose a place for himself a little ways away from the other two, removing the larger of the stones from the ground where he lay his blanket. The sounds of the night were a comfort to him - the strangely musical sounds of insects, the call of a nightbird, the wind breathing through the treetops high above. The air smelled of pine and earth and stone, damp with the mist that had settled on the land. It put him in mind of nights he and Faramir had spent as boys, and of nights together in the field. The younger had been a comforting presence to him, and the fragrance of the night around him was comforting in its memories, making them as solid as the earth beneath him. 

It was cold, though - colder than it had been in many nights, and too cold for the season. He wrapped his cloak around himself and tucked his icy hands beneath his arms to warm them. He wondered where Faramir was, and whether he looked out on the river from where he watched, and whether he kept warm.

Nearby, he could hear the soft voices of Legolas and Aragorn, but they spoke in Elvish and he understood only stray words or phrases. He knew they discussed the Ring, and once he heard his name, and something that might have been his brother's name, but the mist muffled the sound, and he did not want to ask them what they spoke of.

He did not like the feeling that had nestled around his heart, that clenched it when he looked on his would-be king.

Aragorn the Ranger had been, if stubborn and arrogant, at least cautious, wise, compassionate. And when Boromir was honest with himself, he admitted that the man had a right to some part of arrogance. He had done great deeds as Thorongil, though Boromir knew Denethor would not be glad to see that his old rival still drew breath. And he had persevered as Aragorn, against difficulties that would have been the end of lesser men.

Aragorn the heir to the throne of Gondor had been little different, once Boromir had reconciled himself enough to look past his own anger and see the man who stood before him. Indeed, had it not been for the ache that the Ring had put on his heart, Boromir would have tried to make a friend of him - a true friend, not a friend of circumstance, who is a friend because to do otherwise would mean hardship for their companions. But his longing for the Ring had set him somewhat apart, made him always a little alone.

And now that he no longer felt but a whisper of that longing, Aragorn the Ringbearer was come. And he was not what the others had been. From moment to moment, Boromir was not sure what might spark that fey light in Aragorn's eyes. When Boromir's mention of his brother had provoked such a heated response, the violence in the Ranger's gaze had made him long for violence of action, of impact and bloodshed, and he was sure it would come when next Aragorn thought Boromir made any misstep. But when, later, Boromir had accidentally kicked loose a stone and it had struck Aragorn's back, he had braced himself for a similar confrontation, but none had come; Aragorn had glanced over his shoulder with a grin and had lobbed a pebble back up, striking Boromir's chest, and Aragorn had laughed to see the surprise on the other's face. Boromir wished he knew from whence the Ranger had thought his surprise had come.

And Legolas. What of the Elf? They two seemed as close as ever, but twice Boromir had caught Legolas regarding Aragorn with something like worry, and something like fear. It had alarmed him more than his own concerns which, left to himself, he might have supposed were sprung from his jealousy, or his fears for Gondor. For he felt both. How many years would it take to make a Steward a king, if the true king did not return?

No number was enough. And here the true king was, and possessed of the Ring which had bought his ancestor's death, and the deaths of his sons. Which might yet buy death for them all. But in possession of, or possessed by, Boromir could not tell.

And some little ways away, Legolas put his hand on Aragorn's arm and spoke softly in Elvish. "You should try to make a friend of Boromir," he said. "He will not deny you if you do."

Aragorn shook his head, answering in his friend's tongue. "Legolas, I have tried to make a friend of him. Until Moria, when he angered me so, I thought we had become friends, or something like, but now," and he paused, and said, "something has changed. I fear it is the Ring."

Legolas' fair skin paled in the dimness, but Aragorn did not see.

"I fear it still calls to him, Legolas, though he says it does not." He raised grey eyes to the Elf's and Legolas thought there was fear in his voice when he said, "We cannot lose this thing to him, my friend. I am glad you are with me," and he clasped his hand over Legolas' where it rested on his arm, then glanced away, towards the Gondorian. "The Stewards do have royal blood in them, Legolas," he said quietly. "He has a strong will. And he will be the Steward, and Mithrandir feared such a one claiming it - one with power, or with royalty in his veins. It would not take him in a day, but it would take him." Aragorn's voice was low, and muffled by the mists, but to Legolas it seemed sharp as a blade. "He would grow in power," the Ranger went on, his eyes distant, "and he would come to dominate all around him." He looked at the Elf again. "And he could not be slain. If Boromir claims this thing, all will come to ruin. The Dark Lord's servants will become his slaves, as will we all, and yet Sauron would be defeated but not destroyed. Oh, Legolas, I fear it. I do. Boromir is not evil, but he would become so."

"Do you truly think Faramir would aid him in this?" Legolas asked. He, too, had heard from Mithrandir of the young scholar of Minas Tirith, more thoughtful than his brother was rash, and learned in the lore of Men and Elves. "He would know the evil that would be done to his brother, whom he loves."

Aragorn sighed. "I do not know, Legolas. Love can turn the mind and will to places they would never travel on their own."

After a moment, Legolas said, "What did the Gondorian do that provoked such anger from you in Moria?" he asked.

"I know not, Legolas," he replied, his voice weary. "He - I suppose he simply questioned me too often. Questioned my decisions, my leadership." He paused, then went on, "The thing he said at last, which proved too much, was when he told me I had not his experience fighting the servants of the Enemy." He chuckled then, a humourless sound. "_I_ had not the experience."

Legolas smiled to think of it, then said, "But he did not know of your past. He would not have known."

"Now he knows," said Aragorn, speaking then in Westron, and Legolas could not tell whether Aragorn's flat tone indicated regret, or that stern resolve Legolas had seen so often in Aragorn when the other was confronted by one who doubted him. He hoped not to hear that tone used towards himself.

After a moment Aragorn sighed, and pulled away from Legolas' touch. "We will go to Ithilien," he said, "but now the night is cold, and we cannot risk a fire. I shall take first watch."

Legolas shook his head. "I shall watch tonight," he said. "I feel no need for sleep, and both of you are weary, and I think heartsore. Rest, and I will guard you both."

Aragorn nodded. "As you will, my friend. I am grateful." Turning to where Boromir sat, he called out softly, "Boromir," jerking the other out of his thoughts. "Come here."

Reluctant to obey, but more reluctant to spark further hostility in an atmosphere that had already been too close to violence, Boromir rose and went to Aragorn.

"Legolas will watch tonight," said Aragorn, "and will wake us if he feels the need of sleep. Bring your blankets here; it is too dangerous for a fire, and too cold not to share warmth."

Once more the icy fear coiled about Boromir and squeezed, but hoping he hid his apprehension, he gathered up his blankets and returned to where the Ranger lay, annoyed that if the other had intended this, he could not have said as much before Boromir had gotten settled. Wordlessly, he re-made his bed beside Aragorn, once again removing the larger stones, and together, he and the Ringbearer lay down and spread the blankets over themselves. Boromir turned to his side as soon as he was able, away from the eyes that had begun to haunt him as fiercely as the Ring ever had.

Aragorn pulled the heavy wool close about them, wondering at this new compliancy. He had expected another confrontation, had expected to have to convince Boromir of the wisdom of lying together rather than apart, for he knew the man was not inclined to touch him, nor even stay too near. A whimsy took him then, and with a smile, he moved his hand to rest on the broad back of his companion, pleased to feel the tension there, pleased to feel him start to pull away, and then restrain himself. How far would he have to go to make the other abandon that restraint, make him pull away entirely? He felt the struggle in his companion, and relished it. How different he was from the Elf, on whose friendship he had come to depend. Both such fierce warriors at need, yet Legolas was all contained ease, controlled and serene. Boromir's rage might flare up in an instant and die away just as quickly, and his strength was stern, unsubtle, and hard to bend. 

Aragorn caressed the broad back, and could feel the other's tension mounting, could feel him straining not to move or shy away. Legolas did not struggle against himself; Boromir seemed to do little else.

Slowly, he ran his hand down the other's spine, slipped across his waist, drew back up and rested it on the soft skin of Boromir's neck. He pressed his fingers to the pulse, felt Boromir's heartbeat fast and hard, and he smiled faintly to know he inspired such trembling in such a warrior.

He brought his lips to Boromir's ear and whispered, "Do you fear me then, Gondorian?"

Boromir did not answer, his eyes shut tight against an intrusion he could not name, that silky voice slipping into him and curling around his mind.

Aragorn pressed his lips to the other man's hair, and whispered, "Answer me, my Captain."

Scarcely able to move, Boromir opened his mouth and lied. "No, I do not."

A velvet chuckle escaped Aragorn's lips. "Speak no more untruths to me," he said softly, pressing slightly on that tender pulse. "You should earn my trust, not my displeasure."

Boromir pressed his lips together against the acquiescent response that tried to escape, that wished to placate the one who pressed cool fingers to his heartbeat.

Caressing the other's throat, Aragorn said gently, "You will call me lord, one day, Boromir. You will kneel before me as helplessly as you tremble now."

His breath coming tight into his lungs, Boromir found himself again unable to raise his voice past a whisper. "This is the Ring, Aragorn," he said, hardly sure he spoke at all. "You are not yourself."

"You are wrong, Gondorian," Aragorn replied. "But if it eases your mind to think so, for now, I will not fault you. You have never been one to welcome fear, or weakness, and though it is not weakness to tremble before a king, I understand your fear. Indeed," he said, with amusement in his voice, "if it makes you so compliant, I shall treasure your fear." 

Boromir felt as though he were wrapped in the paws of a lion, could almost hear the purr of a cat with its prey. With growing desperation to be away from that touch, from that silky voice, he said shakily, "I am weary, Aragorn, and we have far to go. I would sleep. "

Idly stroking the soft skin of the warrior's throat, Aragorn replied, "Of course. Only face me first."

Reluctantly, Boromir turned onto his back, and in the darkness saw Aragorn above him, eyes shining in the shadows.

Boromir's face was drawn tight, and Aragorn wondered at what he saw there - fear, yes, and supplication beneath the anger that the other tried to hide, but not submission, not yet. The struggle would continue, and Aragorn smiled to think of it, the smile chilling Boromir's heart. "Ah, you are a soldier of Gondor indeed," Aragorn whispered, and leaned down to press a chaste kiss to Boromir's lips. "Sleep now. As you said, we have far to go."

Boromir felt bile rising in his throat, not for the touch of a man, no, he had felt that before, welcomed it on cold nights when death waited on the dawning. No, bile at the taint of the Ring, which touched him with every caress, and Boromir fought to keep still, fought to keep from hurling the other away from him and inviting the violence he knew would follow, and was not sure he could defeat.

And over Aragorn's shoulder, Boromir saw the figure of the Elf, silhouetted against the starlit sky, watching them.

**Ithilien**

Faramir crouched on the shore of the Anduin, gazing with sharp eyes at the river, and at the opposite shore, and the moonlight that glimmered on the water. Something was amiss, he knew not what. Much had seemed amiss since they had had word that Boromir's horse had returned riderless to the Mark, and they had hoped for months for news, or some sign of the Captain-General's fate. 

Some sign of his brother's fate.

But none came, and there was still the Enemy to be fought, to be spied out, to be pushed back and harried. And so he was here, carrying on, and there was joy to be had here, here in this wildness, this Ithilien, though it came in small things and minor victories, whether it be the sweet call of a nightbird or the scattering of Haradrim coming to join the Dark Lord's armies, or the soft track of a cat in the sand beside the river.

Ithilien was a darkling emerald jewel in the night, cool and fragranced with evergreen and the threat of snow. Swift and silent as a fox, Faramir made his way up the shoreline, drawn northwestward by something he could not name. Perhaps his brother was too much in his mind, for ever did they look for his coming from the west, though the chance of him riding down the river in a boat this cold night seemed as remote as the chance of Denethor appearing with a host of men to strike at the Black Gate. Faramir smiled grimly to himself. Such might yet happen, he thought, though there was time, there was time. A last stand in Minas Tirith before the fall of the West, or to ride forth before the Dark Lord and bring the fight to the Enemy? Either path seemed doomed, but one would surely be chosen. One would surely have to be, for what other hope did they have but to die as sons of Gondor, protecting what they loved?

'Oh, I am in a fey mood tonight indeed,' he thought to himself, his grim smile changing to one of amusement. He slipped through the trees and towards where Mablung and the rest of their scouting party would meet, and though his heart stayed on the Anduin, and searched in the dark for his brother, his mind turned to the tasks at hand, in the velvet night in Ithilien.

**Morning on the river**

The day dawned cloudy and cold. Boromir shivered beneath the blankets, turned to find the Ringbearer gone, the Elf standing watch. He lay still for a moment, trying to place the strangeness he felt, and then realized, the fear had gone. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply for what seemed like the first time since the Golden Wood, then rose and made his way to Legolas.

The Elf glanced at him, but did not speak.

"You know," Boromir said, "what has happened. What is happening."

Legolas turned away, looked towards the river.

"Where has he gone?"

"He seems changed this morning, Boromir," said Legolas softly. "I think the man who spoke so strangely to you in the night is - perhaps departed. Perhaps hidden."

Boromir followed the Elf's gaze, but saw nothing. "You heard?"

Legolas nodded. "When he arose he was troubled," he went on. "It may be that you have underestimated his will."

"He should never have taken it," said Boromir, trying and failing to keep the harshness from his tone. "Tell me he has not kept it and left us."

"He has not," said Legolas, glancing at him. "No, I mean only that Aragorn is more Estel this morning, and less the," and he hesitated.

"Less the one who pushes me to submit, and draws you to his side with friendship?" Boromir asked archly.

"And why should you not submit to him?" Legolas replied. "He is your king."

"Nay, Elf," said Boromir, "he is only a claimant to the throne. He will not be king until the Steward declares him such, and I am not the Steward."

"He served Gondor," said Legolas. "He loves her. Were you Steward, you would do ill to reject his claim."

They stood quietly together for a moment, and finally Boromir said, "He would not push me so were it not the influence of that thing," and he sighed. "No, he loves little, I fear, save perhaps yourself."

Legolas smiled, a cold, humourless smile. "He loves greatly, Boromir. He loves greatly, but unwisely. A lady who does not requite him, a land which you would keep from him."

Boromir scowled. "You know nothing of it, Elf," he said sharply, "if that is your thinking. I would give Gondor to the true king, if the true king were come and it were mine to give. But would the true king take this trinket and -" but he stopped then, unwilling to try to explain the web of power that he felt himself trapped in when Aragorn chose to loose it, unwilling to admit to the fear the other had inspired in him.

"And destroy it, Gondorian?" said Legolas. "Yes, he would, and he will. It is more than you would do."

With a low growl, Boromir turned away from the Elf and said, "Where has he gone?"

"To the river."

___________ 

_Note: The description of what the effects of the Ring would be on one who claimed it are from HoME vol. 8_


	5. Blood

**INTERLUDE**

**_The Anduin_**

He searched among the rocks on the riverbank for the right stone; found one, smooth, flat, slightly curved at the edge. Taking it between his fingers he drew back his arm and with a flick of his wrist sent the stone skimming across the Anduin, pleased to see it pop up once, twice, three times before sinking. He smiled faintly, and reached down for another. The sunlight filtered through clouds and glittered on the river like a thousand silver coins, and the flat black stone broke the light and scattered it, skimming out past the middle of the river and finally surrendering to the depths. Aragorn sat back on his heels, arms on his knees, gazing out at the swiftly flowing water.

What had possessed him? He recalled the strong planes of Boromir's back, the quick hard pulse beneath his fingertips. What was it in the other's demeanour that brought this strange part of himself to the surface? What was it in Boromir that cried out to him to force the warrior's surrender, when he knew that a hand extended in friendship, even if not taken at first, was a better path to victory with the man? It was Boromir's father who had taken the Oath of Stewards, and Boromir's father who would keep or break it, but it was Boromir whose friendship he had wanted, whose loyalty and support would do much to convince the Steward to keep the oath. And Aragorn did not wish for strife with Denethor, for as much as he disliked the man, he did not want to destroy him, which breaking his will would surely do. And Aragorn would break his will if the Steward denied him.

And what of the Steward's heir, who looked on him with such mistrust?

"I would not break him, either," he murmured to himself, tasting the words, searching for their truthfulness. "I would not break him," he murmured again, thoughtfully, and the words tasted of blood, tasted of the fear that had radiated off Boromir like heat as he had tried not to shy away from Aragorn's touch.

The Anduin swept by in hypnotic currents, the hazy light glimmering, flowing away towards Ithilien, Osgiliath, Minas Tirith.

Such a sweet child Boromir had been. There had been a day, not unlike this one, with the smell of the Anduin on the breeze and the crisp scent of snow high in the clouds. He and Boromir had walked on the Pelennor, the child wrapped in wool and fur with his small hand holding tight to Thorongil's two fingers, sometimes stopping to examine a stone, or some small insect. Why had they been there that day? He could not remember. Finduilas ill, perhaps, and Denethor in one of his rare private counsels with Ecthelion, the nurses persuaded to let the Captain take the toddler for a while.

Such a sweet child, all curiosity and trust. He recalled that Boromir had grown tired, so he had lifted the child in his arms and carried him back to the City cradled against his shoulder. Had sung to him softly, that small body held to him, the smallest, warmest package. Later, he had watched the sleeping child while outside snow had begun to fall, white against white on the stones of the Citadel.

But the child was not the man. Forty years had passed and the child had grown into - into arrogance, into willfulness. The trust had gone, and in its place was anger, rashness, a terrible need, and striving against all that Aragorn knew must occur; striving to claim the Ring as a weapon, to deny the king who had come. Growing to manhood in the shadow of Mordor had taken a toll on Boromir, one that Aragorn did not know if he could reverse, and which he realized now he had little patience for. Too much was at stake, too much depended on their actions now for him to coddle such a one.

And the Ring. Boromir still desired it, he was sure. It felt warm against his skin, and his hand moved to touch it. That golden impossibility, the One Ring, the Ring which ruled them all. What had Mithrandir said? If one of power claimed it, the mind of Sauron and all his machinations would be known to him, and nothing Sauron did would be kept secret from him. The servants of Sauron would become his servants, could be destroyed or used at will. But though the Ring would be slow to corrupt one of power to evil, it would do so, in time.

But how much time? If Boromir claimed it - if one of power claimed it - how much time before the Ring claimed its wearer?

His finger stroked the soft curve of the Ring, the sunlight dancing like silver flames on the river.

Footsteps. Aragorn dropped his hand and and stood, realizing to his surprise how close he had come to thoughtlessly slipping the Ring onto his finger. His skin tingled now where he had touched it, but the sensation was not unpleasant. He recognized Boromir's steps, and turned to see him approaching, but Boromir seemed unaware of the Ranger's presence, and Aragorn watched him move with easy, angry grace through the trees.

**_Lothlórien_**

The Lady of the Golden Wood moved quietly as snow falling, Gandalf the White beside her. Their low voices mingled with the soft murmur of clear water over stones in the stream nearby.

"I think he will not claim it," said Gandalf, "though it will weigh heavy on him."

Galadriel did not answer.

"His strength will sustain him," Gandalf said quietly.

"He possesses weaknesses you have chosen to forget," Galadriel responded, her voice gentle, and filled with sadness. "I fear I have done him a wrong, though I meant only to give him hope."

Gandalf hesitated, hearing self-reproach in the voice of one in whom reproach for any was rare. "Tell me what passed while they rested here," he said.

They reached the stairs that led to the Mirror, and Galadriel sighed, the sound like the softest brush of linen on skin. "My granddaughter is beloved of him, but she will leave these shores with her people. I thought to show him joy with another, but even in that he saw hope that he might yet win our Evenstar's heart." She turned liquid eyes to the sky, then to Gandalf. "She was ancient in the years of Men before his father was a child - how can he believe she will yet turn to him?"

Gandalf shook his head. "The heart of a Man can be as constant as the sunrise, or as fickle as the whims of a child," he replied. "Aragorn's constancy has won him much, and will win him more."

"But she does not desire him," said Galadriel, and Gandalf heard the whisper of anger beneath her starlit voice.

"I cannot ease your heart in this, Galadriel," he said. "I can only tell you that he has strength, and power within him which I hope will keep him from evil rather than draw it to him, even while he bears this thing."

The Mirror stood on its pedestal in front of them, though neither moved towards it.

"The other Man," said Galadriel. "I had thought of all of them, he would be the one most likely to fall. His need is so great."

"I watched them in Moria," said Gandalf thoughtfully. "They seemed like nothing so much as two fierce dogs, circling each other, testing for strength, fighting for dominance, yet, now and again, coming together as if for warmth, or companionship in the blackness of that place."

"And they are still together."

"Mmm," and Gandalf nodded. "Yes, though for good or ill I do not know." After a time, he said, "Tell me, Lady, what you saw in the heart of the Gondorian."

"The need I have mentioned," she said. "Love for his City, from whence that great need springs. Love for his brother." She paused, then said, "He did not look for the coming of a king, but in his heart, he does not wish to turn away. He wishes for a king that can save his people."

"He wishes for anything that can save his people," said Gandalf with a wry smile, and Galadriel returned it gently.

"Not for evil," she said. "It calls to him, yes, but he only listens because he does not understand. He does not believe that it is its own thing, with its own purposes."

"He has been told often enough," Gandalf replied with some irritation.

She reached out to touch Gandalf's hand and said softly, "Do not fault Boromir for failing to believe. He is not Elessar. He is not of the Elves, and knows no more of us than his father has told him, which I think is little enough. He trusts himself, as would any who had been raised all his short mortal life to govern such a nation." She gestured then towards the Mirror. "Would you look, Gandalf?"

A long moment passed, and finally Gandalf shook his head. "No, I will not. My path is too unclear already for me to take the chance of muddying it further."

Nodding, she turned her face again towards the sky. "There is great need, yes, but also great strength, and love, in both Men," she said at last.

"Let us hope it is enough."

**_The Anduin_**

Boromir strode towards the river in the direction Legolas had indicated, though with what plan in mind he could not say. The further his steps took him from the dubious protection of the Elf, the more apprehensive he became, and by the time he had made his way to where the trees reached the shore, his apprehension had peaked, and there was still no sign of the one he sought. "Elves and Rangers," he muttered to himself and turned to go back to camp, not sure whether they should look for the Ringbearer or await his return, but reluctant to leave Legolas wondering what had become of them.

As he turned, he saw Aragorn not twenty steps away and leaning lazily against a tree, gazing at him. "Welcome back to the world," the other said with a smile. "I had thought you might sleep the day away."

Boromir scowled. "Dreams stole my rest," he said, watching Aragorn approach.

"I know," Aragorn answered. "You called out in the night, though I could not understand your words."

"Rested or no," Boromir replied irritably, "you should have woken me - we have too far to go to coddle me for wakefulness."

"But you seemed peaceful at last," Aragorn said, reaching out to touch Boromir's cheek and turning the other to face him. "Do you not trust me to guard your rest?"

Looking into those steel grey eyes, Boromir flinched inwardly. Here was that mood again, warm now, but volatile beneath, like a comforting evening fire that could leap up at a moment and burn. Cautiously, he replied, "Of course I do."

Stroking his thumb over Boromir's skin, Aragorn's gaze flickered across him, took in the curve of his lips, the creases at the corners of his eyes that bespoke long years of worry, mirth, love, anger. He slipped his hand around the nape of the other's neck, pressed the softness between tendons. "I told you once," he said softly, "no more untruths. Answer me now, do you trust me?"

Boromir hesitated, then said, "I trust you to guard my rest, Ranger," anger colouring his voice. Clearly whoever the Elf had seen when Aragorn awoke had departed, and the Ringbearer had returned.

Aragorn chuckled. "Ah. Very well then," he said. "I will not press you further."

"Good," said Boromir, "for I dislike being pressed." He turned away then to make for camp, but suddenly found himself thrown to the ground, hard. He twisted quickly, getting to his back to escape, but the Ranger flung him back down and in an instant had straddled his chest, and was pinning his arms to the earth with his knees, hands tight on his wrists. He felt gravel digging into the backs of his hands, and Aragorn's face was close to his, dark hair falling about them like a shadow, his eyes glittering.

"I have reconsidered," Aragorn said. "I will press you further."

Boromir struggled to free his arms, tried to buck the other loose but Aragorn's position was firm. "Release me," he said in a snarl. "Or shall I call to the Elf? I'll warrant you would not have him see this side of you!"

"Legolas hoped I would speak with you this morning," Aragorn replied, "and he knows enough of the ways of Men to know our argument may become," and Aragorn hesitated, then smiled, and said,"heated. He will not interrupt us."

A short bark of laughter and Boromir said, "He trusts you beyond reason, Dúnadan."

"Would that _you_ trusted me, Gondorian," the Ranger said. "If you did, I might not find it so compelling a game to test you."

"Then this is a game to you?" asked Boromir, incredulous. The Ranger would make a _game_ of their conflict, when so much depended upon success and their own animosity was the greatest threat to it?

Aragorn laughed. "Yes, a game indeed, and pleasant sport it is." He shook his head then, adjusting his grip but not loosening it. "I know my strength, Gondorian, and I know you have naught to fear from me if you would only believe that yourself. I would not harm you if you believed I would not."

"So I must trust you in order for you to be one whom I can trust?"

He shrugged. "In effect, yes," he said.

Boromir scowled. "You are -" but he hesitated then, and finished, "demanding indeed." It would not be wise, he thought, to accuse one so clearly mad of being mad.

"Is it so difficult, Boromir?" said Aragorn softly. "I served your grandfather. I have loved Gondor since before you were born."

"You show little sign of it now," Boromir replied angrily. "You would have me believe you mean me no harm and that you will safeguard Gondor, but you keep me from her and show me only violence and mistrust!" Jerking against the Ranger, he tried again to sit up, tried to twist himself loose, but the Ranger had the advantage and he could not. "By all the gods, release me!" he said with a snarl of frustration, but the other was calm, unmoved and unmoving. "I know not what to think of you, Aragorn," he snapped. "At any moment I expect you to show me all the gentleness you showed that wretched creature you brought to Mirkwood, bound and gagged and half starved by you to keep him docile!"

Aragorn chucked. "An interesting picture that would make," he said thoughtfully. "But I fear I need you on your feet, and I think even Legolas might find his faith in me tested if I took such an action."

Aragorn could feel Boromir straining against him, but with his own weight and sinew he pressed him still to the earth, felt no fear of the other escaping. He gazed into Boromir's furious eyes, saw the tension there, the struggle. Close enough to smell leather, the sweat and dirt of the hard road they'd traveled, the sweetness of pipeweed and pine smoke which permeated all their clothes though the Gondorian had never taken to the pipe, all mingling with his own scent, intoxicating, and he felt as though time had slowed, and the world narrowed to encompass only himself, the Steward's son, the ground beneath them. He watched Boromir, saw the other's demeanour change from anger, to fear, to confusion, to perplexity as he himself merely waited, hands gripping the Gondorian's wrists, thighs pressed to the hard sides of his body, knees on his biceps. Idly, Aragorn wondered if they would bruise.

"Release me," Boromir said again, his voice raw. He had expected a response. He had expected the other to press an attack, make some move, had thought an opening might reveal itself if he provoked the Ranger, but this, this was strange, this long moment, this long silence. He felt Aragorn's strong fingers digging into the bones of his wrists, the crushing pain in his arms where he knelt, the weight of him pressing on his chest, and the light of the sun through the trees cast a silvery flame around the black shadow of the Ranger's dark hair. 

Boromir's heartbeat felt hard and loud. Again he tried to break free, buck the other off and twist loose. Aragorn shifted with him, still trapping him, then tightened his grip and leaned forward, and Boromir's breath caught as Aragorn inhaled softly, the sound of it whispering in his ear.

Breathing in the other man's scent, Aragorn tasted Boromir's skin and was startled by the other's gasp, then pleased. He had almost forgotten Boromir in his questing for the scent, the taste, the blood of the man, but clearly Boromir had not forgotten him. A sound rose in Aragorn's throat at that intoxicating fragrance and the salt on of the other's sweat on his tongue, and he said in a low growl, "You taste of fear."

Feeling as though he was lost in a fever, Boromir turned his face away, casting about for something, he knew not what. Something to bring him back to himself, for surely this was not real, surely he still dreamed, but no, the gravel beneath him, the weight which held him down, the scent of leather and sweat, all were too real, too real to have been conjured by even the most fevered mind. He felt panic rising in him, the Ranger's face so near, and with a sudden violent movement he lashed out with the only weapon at his command, their two heads colliding hard, and Boromir was gratified by Aragorn's shout of surprise and pain. Twisting hard to his left, he threw the Ranger off and scrambled to his feet, leapt backwards and reached for his sword, and swore softly. It was still at the camp.

Aragorn laughed, on his feet now as well, and Boromir regretted not having pressed his advantage instead of reaching for a weapon that he had been too witless to bring. Keeping his weight low and balanced, his ears ringing, he eyed the Ranger warily, and waited to see what the other would do.

"That will leave a mark," said Aragorn, smiling.

"What do you play at?" Boromir snarled. "The game does not become you. Shall we brawl here? or shall we return, and break camp, and continue this journey as though we are both sane men?"

Aragorn circled around the Gondorian, more surprised that the other had caught him off guard than angry at the attack. He considered Boromir now, taking his measure, and saw a man with his back to the wall, looking for an escape; saw a strong man brought to despair by his longing for a weapon he could not wield; saw, suddenly now in those grey eyes, the child that Boromir had been, the grey-eyed child he had sung to sleep in his arms on a cold day some forty years past; the little one who had held his hand on the Pelennor with perfect trust. The grave-eyed child of Ecthelion's son, oh, such a sweet child. Such a sweet child.

"Little one," he murmured now, using Finduilas' name for the boy, a name he hadn't thought of in forty years, circling closer, and Boromir watched him with shadowed eyes. "Oh, little one, how have we come to this?" He heard the sadness starting to rise in his own voice, and he let it come, unashamed. He touched the place on his temple where a bruise would surely flower, saw the matching mark on Boromir, who still kept watchful, ready to defend against an attack that Aragorn suddenly had no wish to press. Shaking his head, he held out a hand to the other, saying softly, "How did we come to this, you and I? We should be friends, Boromir. We have the same goal, and though perhaps you doubt it, I do love Gondor. I loved your grandfather. I loved you, child, and though you were too small then to remember it now, you loved me as well," and he shook his head, remembering.

Boromir did not relax, his eyes still dark, and though he groped for something to say, he could think of nothing. His eyes flickered to the proffered hand, but he did not move to grasp it.

"Such a sweet child," Aragorn continued gently. "I remember holding you in my arms when you were scarcely six months old." He smiled, continuing his gradual approach as Boromir continued to back away. "You looked on me with all the love and trust a child can offer," he said, his voice breaking. "The moon and all the stars are not so vast. Have you no love for me now, no trust left?"

It could be no dream, but Boromir was lost, unsure if the very ground beneath him might give way and plunge him into some other world, which could be no more strange than what he faced now. The name Aragorn used, which Boromir had not heard since the day his mother died, brought with it the wash of memories, of safety, and yet it had been only moments ago that he had felt such peril from one who should have been - would be - his king, and who now spoke to him so gently. Aragorn's voice was cool and soothing as the Great River in high summer, and Boromir was so weary of this constant struggle. The river could be treacherous, he knew, yet was sweet as honey on the tongue, cool and welcome as rain, the very heart's blood of Gondor, and he felt himself being pulled into the easy current of Aragorn's words.

He dropped his gaze, stumbling backwards away from the Ranger, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Are we comrades now, Aragorn?" he asked, "when moments ago we were enemies? These changes in your mood bewilder me."

"Then do not provoke them," Aragorn replied, and saw Boromir turn a sharp gaze on him. Around his neck, the Ring grew heavy, warm and comforting as a hand, and he felt the eyes of the other as if they pierced through linen and leather to see the gleam of it against his skin. "Trust me, Boromir, as you should," he said, "or fight me," and his voice was all menace again, "and know: you will be beaten. Your father could not best me," he went on, those slow steps forward and Boromir watched him come, "though he tried. Your brother would die avenging you if you were to force my hand, or protecting you if you sought his aid, and -"

But he was cut off as Boromir lunged forward and caught the Ranger below his ribs, knocking him backwards and to the ground, the breath leaving his lungs in a rush as the warrior flung himself astride Aragorn and brought his fist crashing into the Ranger's face once - "Never speak" - twice - "of my brother" - three times - "to me again!" - before Aragorn managed to block the attack. Boromir twisted his forearm under the blocking hand and struck a heavy blow with the back of his fist, but Aragorn bucked up with his hips, throwing Boromir off balance and gaining enough space to scramble away, and soon both men were on their feet. But Aragorn barely had time enough to taste his own blood before Boromir attacked again, striking him hard in his already painful abdomen and doubling him over, almost managing to bring his knee smashing into Aragorn's face. The Ranger twisted away, catching the warrior's leg and toppling him to the ground, then lashed out with a savage kick, catching Boromir hard in his unprotected thigh, gratified by the grunt of pain it netted him, and dancing backwards when Boromir kicked out in return. 

With Aragorn now just out of range, Boromir swiftly got his feet under himself and almost managed to rise before the Ranger was on him again, and suddenly the two men were rolling towards the river, scrambling for dominance, fighting for an advantage or to create an opportunity. Then, to his horror, Boromir realized that Aragorn had managed to draw his dagger, the arc of it cutting a glittering path through the morning air. Wrenching his hand loose he brought his arm up to block the blow and grasp the other man's wrist, but with Aragorn atop him Boromir could not gain control of the weapon. Aragorn's face was grim, his eyes cold, and with with a quick twist he broke Boromir's grip and brought the knife down, the edge pressing the skin of the Gondorian's throat.

Instantly, Boromir froze, his hands raised in capitulation, his breath coming hard, but shallow from the the other's weight. He felt lightheaded, and wished the Ranger would move, if only enough that he could catch his breath. But Aragorn did not release him. "I yield," he said at last.

Aragorn smiled. "I doubt that." He pressed more firmly, watching Boromir's eyes, and then his gaze was caught by an injury on the other man's temple. Less a cut than an abrasion, raw and bleeding, and Aragorn tried to recall inflicting it, but the fight was a blur, and he could not. The Ring had slipped from within his shirt and hung between them, shining dully in the shadow Aragorn cast. It seemed heavy, hot, implacable, pulling him down. Holding the knife motionless, he leaned forward again, again reaching for that smell, that flavour, the luxurious heat of the other, and heard Boromir's hiss of pain when he licked the wound, felt him flinch, savoured the hot metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

Knife at Boromir's throat, chest to chest, the Ring burning between them, Aragorn spoke softly into Boromir's ear, and Boromir found himself shivering as though with a terrible fever, not from fear, though gods, he was afraid, but only from the sibilant voice of the Ringbearer. 

"There are tribes far in the south," Aragorn whispered, "past Far Harad, where it is said that to gain your enemy's strength, eat his heart." He pressed his lips to that wound again, closing his eyes and murmuring, "I can taste all of Gondor in your blood, little one," and in the heat and fullness of it he indeed tasted everything he desired, except for one. Gondor, her children, the lush lands there and the sunlit rivers, the blood of Men, the blood and the strength and the weakness of Men. Tasted the world, except for one. And like a shadow, the Evenstar slipped behind his vision and he turned his face away.

She did not love him.

She did not want him.

The knife trembled, and Boromir tried to shrink further away from it into the hard earth beneath him.

Aragorn felt his movement and smiled, steadied the blade. "I will not harm you unless I mean to," he said gently. "You fear change," he went on, his tone thoughtful. "You fear the change that I bring, you fear the change the blade brings."

"No," Boromir said quickly, feeling the press of the dagger, and in some part of his mind wondering how far the Ranger would go with this game. "No, I - I fear only for Gondor's safety. Change comes. Only a fool fears it."

Aragorn chuckled. "But you would have the slow, cool change of the Anduin, and I bring fire."

Boromir closed his eyes, the press of the dagger like a burn. "Please, Aragorn, take the blade from my throat," he murmured, his thoughts clouded, searching for something, something that would move the Ranger, and suddenly he remembered the Elf. "Let us return to the - to Legolas," he said softly. "He will think we have come to harm."

"And have we not?" asked Aragorn, pressing his lips again to that wound, tasting Boromir's blood. The Ring seemed molten between them, licking in tongues of fire through his veins, burning away the spaces, and he was not sure where he left off and the other began. "Have we not?" he murmured again.

Boromir struggled for breath enough to make an answer. Aragorn's weight held him down, the knife kept him still, the Ring freezing his skin, freezing his blood, pressing against him and so cold it burned, but the Ranger was fire, holding him above the icy chasm of the Ring. Fire and ice flickered about him and within him in a razor edged dance of pain and need, and he heard a voice murmuring some response, some query, but though he recognized the voice as his own, he could not understand the words.

"Shhh, little one," Aragorn said softly. "Would you undo this harm?"

Yes. Yes. "Yes."

"Do you yield to me?" his voice smoke-and-steel, tongues of fire.

Boromir could not find his own voice, only mouthed the word, "Yes."

After a long moment, Aragorn said, "Look at me, little one."

Boromir opened his eyes. In the steel of Aragorn's gaze Boromir saw everything he feared, and everything he had not known he hoped for. Enemy, usurper, protector, comrade. Isildur's heir, and the Ring's rightful bearer; Elendil's heir, and Gondor's true king. Thorongil, Aragorn, Elessar. Fire leapt in Aragorn's eyes, and ice, and beneath it the glitter of power, the glitter of gold. And far away, in those fathomless depths, past the fire, past the Ring, was the sparkle of silver, the swift-flowing waters of the Anduin in the sunlight, far away.

Aragorn withdrew the knife from Boromir's throat, and pressed a gentle kiss to the warrior's brow, then graceful as a cat, he stood, and offered his hand to the other.

Boromir took it, and let Aragorn pull him to his feet, then into an embrace, Aragorn's arms slipping about his shoulders. His thoughts too muddled to protest, Boromir returned the gesture, and for a moment the two men clung to each other, and it seemed there was nothing between them but this strong embrace, and the trust that lived between the child and the man.  


**_Ithilien_**

Snow drifted down in sparse flakes that melted as soon as they touched the ground. It was too warm for snow, but the clouds were heavy, and the snow came anyway. Faramir crouched motionless in the shadows of the trees, seeming to watch the river, but Mablung knew him, and knew that look. The Ranger may have seemed aware of every insect that crawled, may indeed have been aware in some part of his mind. Mablung would not wish to be the enemy who tested that awareness, for he might get two feet of steel in his gut for the effort. But the young captain's eyes were distant, and Mablung knew that wherever he looked, it was far away from here.

For his part, Mablung only waited, watchful enough himself for two men, for his captain to move or speak.

The water glittered in the hazy light, and to Faramir it was as though it touched him, the soft press of it against his skin, washing around him, pushing him to movements he did not make. Nearby, Mablung watched and waited; Faramir could feel the other's breath, though Mablung was as silent as the grave, could almost feel his heartbeat, a comforting presence. Even as he felt the current of the distant river, he also felt the soft fall of a snowflake where it alighted on his hand, the dirt beneath his fingers where he braced himself in his crouch, the prickle of dry grass on his skin. He caught the swift skitter of a lizard in the grass, and then in the water a flash of gold. His gaze flickered to where he'd seen it, but nothing shone there now. In the haze of an illusion, Faramir brought his hand to his breast, where his skin suddenly burned, though with cold or heat he could not tell, and there was a whisper in his mind of his brother's voice, a threat and a pleading, and a surrender he had never felt from Boromir; not when their father raged, not when they had faced the Lord of Minas Morgul at Osgiliath, and he shuddered, and stopped his gasp before it left his throat.

"Captain?" said Mablung softly.

Faramir dropped his gaze from the river, and shook his head, the strange sensation passing as suddenly as it had come upon him. The river was distant again, his mind his own, and he turned a troubled glance to Mablung. When he spoke, though, his voice was calm. "I must return to Minas Tirith."


	6. Worth All Things

**Nindalf**

Legolas was troubled. He had heard his companions fighting, but had not gone to them, and wondered now if he had erred. It was not an unusual way for Men to work out their differences, he knew, and neither man was likely to try to do real damage, nor succeed if he did try, for they were well-matched. But when they had returned... both had been bloodied, but neither badly, and Aragorn had been calm enough, even affectionate towards Boromir. The Gondorian, though, was another matter. When Boromir had arisen that morning and they had spoken, Legolas had found him as irritating as ever, but the warrior had seemed to have thrown off the strange submissiveness which had allowed him to hear Aragorn's words in the night without reacting. But upon returning from the riverside, he had had the look of a man who has seen one battle too many, his shoulders rounded, and his gaze turned inwards, and filled with confusion, and pain that did not come from the hurts to his body. 

Legolas had heard others remark on the vacant gaze of men who had been too hurt by some battle or by being too long at war, but he was amazed at their lack of perception, for the gaze was far from vacant. No, indeed, the trouble was that it was too full. Such was Boromir's gaze now, and the warrior had looked at neither Legolas nor Aragorn as they broke camp, nor as they brought the boats to the water, nor as they pushed away from shore and back into the swift-flowing Anduin. It was not until they had traveled some miles that Boromir seemed to waken to his surroundings, and even then, he did not speak unless asked a question, and then answered in as few words as possible, his voice soft.

Aragorn, in contrast, was as bright as the sun, seeming happier and more at ease than Legolas could recall having seen him. He remarked on the beauty of the shoreline they passed, and on the crystal water, remarked that he wished to come back here one day after all was done and perhaps stay a while, fish in the clear river, walk under the trees, sleep in the warmth of the afternoon.

That he took no note of Boromir's distress worried Legolas at least as much as the Gondorian's silence, and he hoped he would soon have an opportunity to speak to Boromir alone, and he eyed him watchfully, wondering.

Boromir was aware of the Elf's eyes on him, but was too consumed by the tumult of his mind and heart to do more than simply be aware. He felt shattered, scarcely able to focus on even so simple a task as seeing that his small boat stayed on its course. His eyes were drawn increasingly to the Ringbearer, who seemed now to him to be always cast in a dark and shining glow, as though he were hidden in shadows that made the light around him twice brighter than it should be, blinding but black. He tried to remember what had happened between them - an argument, blows, the knife pressed to his throat. The indescribable violation and intimacy of the Ringbearer's voice in his ear, the fire and ice that had seemed in his touch. Had Aragorn truly tasted his blood? truly put lips to the wound that Aragorn himself had inflicted? And what, Boromir wondered suddenly, had he been thinking to attack the other man? Had he not known this would be the way of it? The Ranger was battle-hardened and now mad; perhaps that madness had infected him as well, to think he could do violence to Aragorn and expect it to come to good. Though indeed, he had not had such an expectation. No expectation at all, only rage.

Faramir had been the goad, the final spur to Boromir's frayed and ragged temper. Now in the bright sunlight that filtered through high clouds and silvered the water of the river, Boromir recalled the black look in the Ranger's dark eyes when he had threatened the life of the one whom Boromir loved above all else. He glanced at the Ranger, far ahead on the river, and reached for some measure of calm to help him gather the scattered thoughts that assailed his mind. Faramir. He clung to the thought of his brother as a drowning man clings to a spar. Not for the first time he wondered if he had been wrong to insist on making this journey himself, for Faramir was the diplomat, Faramir the politician. He would not have made the errors Boromir had made; might not have been one whom Aragorn regarded with so much mistrust as to take the Ring himself to protect it. For surely it had been Boromir's desire for this thing which had forced the Ranger's hand, and now he felt a hot shame and misery when he considered that he had brought this trouble upon them himself. And now, was Aragorn lost to them? was the true king of Gondor lost because the son of the Steward had been too unguarded in his desire?

The Anduin flowed away southward, carrying them towards the mouths of the Entwash.

**Minas Tirith**

Faramir arrived in Minas Tirith in the late afternoon, the fading sunlight streaming across the stones of the White City and turning it to gold and flame, but he took no notice of that beauty. His long legs took him from the stables to the Citadel, and from there to his brother's chambers, which he unlocked quietly in the cool dimness of the hallway, entered, and shut the door softly behind himself.

He stood for a moment, feeling the still air of the room which had not been disturbed since Boromir had left to find Imladris. He took in the surroundings - the tapestry of a hunting party which graced the wall across from the window; the furnishings now shrouded in white linens to keep the dust and grime from them, for though none had known how long Boromir would be gone, there had been no hope of it being a short journey; the lamps on the wall, unlit for almost half a year. Yet beneath the dust and in the stillness of the air, there lingered his brother's scent, warm and sweet and familiar, and Faramir was struck by a wave of dizziness at the memory of what he'd felt that morning, and his gut clenched in anger at whatever it was that had caused Boromir such distress. For he knew it was no fancy. 

He strode to the desk then and with a quick movement flicked back the linen that covered it. Opening the heavy bottom drawer he removed a leatherbound book that rested near the top, then took out a sheaf of papers that lay beneath it, and a map case. Closing the drawer and settling the linen back in place, he set the papers and the book on the floor and opened the map case, slipped out the thin leather scroll and unrolled it carefully, smoothing it out on the linen that covered the desktop, grateful that he'd marked out Boromir's route for himself, even though neither of them had been able to think of a good reason he would need it. There was no likelihood that he would be following that route himself.

Still, his eye traced the path his brother would have traveled, then considered how best one might return if secrecy were needed. For surely whatever had struck Boromir so heavy a blow would not be something that rode in the light of day like a conquering hero. There had been a terrible power and need in it, and grave secrecy - something which both wished to be found and had stayed hidden in shadows. And though Faramir had as yet no clear idea what he searched for, nor how he could affect the situation, still he searched the map, searched through the notes in the book and the papers, as though these might show him where Boromir was or how he could be reached, or held some clue as to the nature of the thing that had caught him. 

But all they had known before Boromir had left had been so little, and so little had been added to that knowledge in the months that had passed. The dream, the lore of Imladris, the few things Faramir had gleaned about Isildur's bane, none of these revealed any secrets to him now in the fading light.

Finally, Faramir rolled up the map and tapped it back into its case, gathered the papers and the book, and carried all with him back through the corridor to his own chambers, where he lay them in an uneven pile on his own desk. Then he sat down heavily in the chair by the window and gazed outward for a moment before closing his eyes and trying to recall that quick vision which had so disturbed him, trying to somehow call his brother to him. 

Letting his mind wander into all the places where Boromir dwelt, he remembered his brother's laughter, his open regard, his impatience with the intrigues and manipulations of the Council. Boromir's strength was in the open conflict and the open friendship, and Faramir wondered now whether he and Denethor had done the elder a disservice by not pushing him to learn... well, to learn deception. To learn to bend others through manipulation rather than command; to come in through the un-used side door of the heart, steal in and twist as a politician or a lover, rather than confront and fight in the open as a soldier.

And then they had sent him to the Elves, with his open heart and his open regard, his unsubtle strength and his straightforward honesty. Faramir knew nothing of the Elves of this Imladris; had he sent his brother into a danger that was beyond him?

Sent, no, that was wrong, for Boromir had insisted on the task, but still Faramir wondered if he should have resisted further. Wondered if he should have used those skills he'd learned so well from Denethor. For a time he had considered it, had even begun to gently turn Boromir towards the path Faramir wanted him to take, but he had not been able to bring himself to finish the task, for in Boromir's easy response he had seen all the trust that either had ever bestowed upon the other. Faramir's heart had turned away from abusing that trust. Instead, he had hoped that Denethor's determination to keep Boromir near would overwhelm Boromir's stubbornness, but it had not happened so.

Now, he thought, perhaps it would have been better to abuse Boromir's trust than to send him on this errand to the Elves. Imladris was no enemy, but neither ally, for their two lands had had no contact in many lives of men. And without doubt the lords of Imladris, if such they were even called, had purposes Gondor did not know, and which Boromir was ill-suited to discover from a race not famed for plain-spokenness. Go not to the Elves for counsel, he had heard it said, for they shall say both no and yes, and what would Boromir say to that if it were true of the Elves of Imladris? 

"How short-sighted have we been, father?" he murmured. "For all our vaunted wisdom, we have sent Boromir into the hands of those he is least suited to treat with, and now...." He whispered his brother's name in the fading light, and opened his eyes again, gazed out the window towards the west. 

"'Seek for the sword that was broken.' What can it be?" he wondered aloud, not for the first time. "The broken sword, Isildur's bane, they must be connected, but how? Have the Elves Isildur's bane, and what is it? And what significance a broken sword? It seems an ill omen, indeed, but apart from that?"

Faramir chuckled. "Talking to myself in a darkening bedchamber," he muttered, "when I should have gone already to the libraries for an answer rather than trying to conjure one out of the air. What would Boromir think of me if he knew?"

And that sense again, he recalled it now, that sense of power, and fear, and surrender, and he wondered, what power might the Elves have? what power might these tokens have, this broken sword, this bane of Isildur? What power might they have over his stern-willed, open-hearted brother? He rested his head on his hand, and watched the night fall, already missing the green-dappled shadows of Ithilien.

The hour was late when Faramir finally left the libraries and approached his father's chamber. Apprehensive, but determined to keep his temper regardless of the Steward's mood, he knocked twice, and waited for the answer to come muffled through the heavy door before opening it. "Father," he said as he entered. Denethor half-reclined on a settee beneath the window, and glanced up at his younger son's voice.

"Faramir," he said. "Come in. Sit. What news from Ithilien? Why have you returned to the city?"

Faramir made his way through the dimness to the chair at the foot of the settee, feeling the muscles of his shoulders begin to relax. It seemed the Steward might not be in one of his more foul moods. Denethor had suffered only one lamp to be lit, and with the moon shadowed by clouds only that lamp cast any glow into the room. He touched the seat of the chair before taking it, to be sure no papers lay there in the dark. "My report awaits you on the morning," Faramir replied, "but the reason for my return is not within it."

"What, then?" asked Denethor, fixing a steady gaze on his son.

"I seek your counsel, Father," he replied, "regarding Boromir."

"Your brother has been gone very nearly half a year," said Denethor. "What counsel could avail us now?"

Faramir paused before answering, then said, "You have little patience with what you call my fancies, I know, but I know as well that you have had such yourself, and I believe in your heart you know when they are true, and when they are imaginings."

Denethor shifted slightly to face Faramir more fully, but he did not sit up. "What has happened, Faramir?" he asked. "Be direct, though I know you dislike it."

Faramir smiled slightly, considering the irony of that accusation coming from the Steward. "On the shores of the Anduin," he said, letting his smile fade, "I had a vision of my brother," exaggerating somewhat but only so Denethor would understand. To say he had had a feeling would hardly sway the Steward. "He was in peril - he is in peril. I begin to suspect the Elves of Imladris are not the allies we might have hoped."

"Why?"

"Isildur's bane," Faramir replied. "The broken sword. I have been to the libraries this night, and found that it is written Isildur took up his father's broken sword to strike at Sauron. I think the mention of Isildur's bane in the same dream which spoke of the broken sword may mean the sword is Isildur's." Faramir wanted to stand, and pace, but restrained himself, keeping his hands folded in his lap and letting show none of his agitation. "The dream tells us that the sword is in Imladris, but why would the Elves have this heirloom of Men?" He did not say what he wondered - that the Elves, who had witnessed Sauron's defeat, might well have wrested it from Isildur, and who knew what else they might have taken from him? Isildur's bane, as well?

Denethor waved a dismissive hand, motes of dust dancing in the flickering lamplight and swirling in the slight breeze made by Denethor's disregard. "Ancient history, my son," he replied. "It can have no bearing on what we face now." But the Steward's gaze remained on Faramir, watchful.

"I think it can, and does," Faramir replied, trying to cool the heated tone that his voice reached for. It would not avail him with his father to be too insistent. "I felt a power and a threat on the shore of the Anduin unlike any I have felt, and -" but he hesitated then, and Denethor looked at him.

"'And' what, Faramir?" His tone was cool.

Steeling himself, Faramir went on, "Boromir is in peril, father, I am certain of it. I felt his distress as though it were my own. Something has, or will, overcome him."

There was a long silence as Denethor considered this, and Faramir felt his apprehension returning. Finally, Denethor spoke. "Had you not always been your brother's strong support, I might wonder if this were jealousy rearing its head at last," he said. "I find it difficult to believe that Elves could overcome the Blade of Gondor."

Faramir nodded. "As do I, my lord. But you and I know that Boromir lacks patience with intrigues. I fear if these Elves are not well-disposed towards Men - towards Gondor - and they bear these heirlooms which I think may have power beyond that of tokens, it may be that we have sent Boromir into a danger against which he is ill-suited to defend."

Denethor sat up, swinging his feet to the floor and resting his arms on his knees. "And you think it is the Elves who may be behind the distress you felt?"

Startled by his father's acceptance of the notion that anything Faramir felt might have significance, Faramir replied, "I suspect it."

After a moment, Denethor said, "The Elves may have the broken blade, Faramir. They may have more than that."

Faramir tilted his head, his eyes narrowing on his father. "What do you know, father?"

Denethor sighed heavily. "Little enough, but some," he said. "Years ago, in my youth, one came here called Thorongil. You have heard me speak of him."

Faramir nodded. "You did not trust him."

"No, I did not. Unbeknownst to Ecthelion, nor to any but the men I sent 'till now, I did send men to find the truth of his history, for he told no one and it troubled me." Faramir was quiet, waiting for his father to continue. Finally, Denethor went on. "They learned he was from the North," he said. "Rumoured to have been fostered by Elves. They said he went by many names, among them Estel, and Aragorn."

"'Hope'," said Faramir. "That might bear out rumours of his fostering."

"And 'Aragorn'," said Denethor. "A name not known, but it seems not without significance."

Nodding thoughtfully, Faramir said, "Particularly when considered alongside 'Estel' - but what hope might the Elves have in a dead line of the kings of Men?"

Denethor smiled. "I had wondered if I would need to tell you of the significance of that name; it seems I underestimated you, my raven."

Faramir chuckled. "As I have so often complained of. But if the line did not die with Arvedui...." Faramir hesitated, then said, "When you discovered this of Thorongil, what did you do?"

"Nothing," Denethor replied. "He was scarcely grown to manhood, and had he claimed the throne then it would have meant disaster. I did not confront him, for had I, and had he told me he was Isildur's heir, I could not have withheld that knowledge from Ecthelion. It would have thrown many things into turmoil, which we could ill-afford." He shook his head. "No, as long as Thorongil chose to keep his secret, I did not intend to force his hand."

"So the broken blade may indeed be the ancient sword Narsil, and token of this Thorongil's lineage?" Faramir asked.

Denethor nodded. "Perhaps, though I had not thought of Thorongil in many years, nor Isildur's sword for many years before that. If the Elves of Imladris are the Elves which fostered him, it may be."

"If his blood is true enough, he could still live and be hale, even after all this time."

"Live, yes," said Denethor, and Faramir heard an uncertain anger in his father's voice, "and return to Gondor. As for what hope the Elves might have in a king in Gondor, what hope would they not have in forcing an alliance between our peoples?"

Faramir looked at the Steward uncertainly. "You speak as though you know more of this than you have shared with me."

"You are not my equal yet, Faramir," said Denethor, and Faramir flinched at the tone that had entered his father's voice - sharp, cold, and all too familiar. "It will be long before I share with you all that I know."

Bowing his head, Faramir replied, "Yes, my lord Steward. I should not have questioned."

Denethor scowled. "We are not in council Faramir, you need not pretend such submission."

"I do not pretend," said Faramir irritably. "I am your faithful servant, my lord, and your obedient son."

"Yes, yes," said Denethor, fluttering his hand dismissively again, again making motes dance in the lamplight. "But you are here in my chamber tonight as neither of those things, but as your brother's protector, are you not?"

"I would search for him, yes, if you would give me leave."

"And do what when you find him?"

"That will depend entirely on what I find."

**On the Anduin**

Grey-clad and silent as the shadows on the river, Haldir and Orophin navigated their light boats by what moonlight shone. Keen eyes pierced the darkness easily, and they needed little rest, but even so, the brothers each doubted they could reach their Northern cousin and his companions before the three entered Mordor. Yet Mithrandir had requested it, and Celeborn and Galadriel had agreed, and so they went, and swiftly, to try to undo the damage that had been done by the Halfling's moment of weakness.

Haldir's heart had gone out to the erstwhile Ringbearer, for he had seen grief in the small one's eyes, and defeat. Frodo had asked leave to come with them, to try to redeem his error, but it could not be - swift as two Elves alone could go, they might still not be in time, and to bring the Halfling with them would have only ensured their failure. Yet Haldir had ached at the misery that he'd seen in those eyes, eyes older than they should have been from having borne the weight of that burden only to surrender it before reaching the goal.

"Poor little Periannath," he murmured to himself, and Orophin heard his brother's low voice.

"You think of Frodo," he said softly, and Haldir's keen hearing plucked the words from the rush of water.

"Mithrandir is gentle with him," Haldir replied, "but I think he will not forgive himself even if all ends well."

"Perhaps he should not," said Orophin mildly. "He surrendered his task to another, and if the other should fail, then all will perish. It was his burden, yet he kept it not, nor the faith that was placed in him."

Haldir felt a moment's irritation with his brother, then said, "Then let us not fail the faith that has been placed in us, if forgiveness is withheld for a moment's weakness."

"And if we find them?" asked Orophin, ignoring his brother's tone. "Do we truly intend to murder the foster-son of Elrond Half-elven? what then for the love between Imladris and Lórien?"

"It does not concern me," said Haldir, though Orophin thought he had the sound of one trying to convince himself. "If need be, I would murder every Man in Middle-earth to destroy this thing."

Orophin chuckled. "Then let us hope it need not be, for we would surely never rejoin our people if we undertook such a time-consuming task. They breed like woodmice."

Haldir smiled. "Then if I did, you would aid me?"

"Always, brother," Orophin replied, "though my temper might become short after an age or two."

**Nindalf**

The western shore of the river bore slightly more in the way of solid ground than did the eastern, but it was full dark before they found a patch of earth on which to camp. The night was not as cold as the previous night had been, but the Men still felt the chill, and the wetness in the air seemed to seep in through the weave of their clothing, bringing the cold with it. Boromir sat huddled in his cloak on the opposite side of Legolas from Aragorn, and tried to keep his gaze averted, or downcast, thinking it would be better if Aragorn forgot his presence altogether. Yet his eyes were drawn again and again to the Ringbearer.

On the river he had felt some measure of peace return to him, but now, here, so close to the Ring and its bearer, he began to fracture, the fire of the Ring licking at the edges of his heart, sending sparks flaring into the shadows of his mind, lighting thoughts he had not wished to see. He felt the soft, cool strength of the Elf beside him, and wanted at once to shy away from it and to press close - away from the arrogance, away from the coldness, yet that very coldness soothed him somehow, as though shielding him from something he could neither claim nor deny.

He had a sudden and irrational desire then to wade out into the middle of the Great River and let the current sweep him away. It called to him to leave the burn of that circle of gold, leave the lightning that flared around the Ringbearer, leave the mistrustful and arrogant Elf, abandon all and sink into the silken waters, let the river carry him home. Home to Faramir, to his father, to the White City cool in the starlit night.

It wasn't until he felt the hand on his shoulder and turned to find the Elf's ancient eyes gazing into his that he realized he had risen and started towards the water.

"Boromir," said Legolas, his hand at once gentle and firm. He looked into the Gondorian's face and watched as Boromir's eyes began to clear, his gaze to turn outward again.

"Legolas?" Boromir said, quietly. "I did not - " but he hesitated then.

"It is early in the season for swimming," Legolas commented, the smallest smile curving his lips.

Nodding sharply, Boromir took his gaze from the Elf's and dropped it to the marshy ground, then raised his eyes again. "Aragorn," he said, the words almost inaudible though Legolas could not tell whether from fear or simple caution. "He is falling."

"We shall not let him fall," said Legolas, his voice barely a whisper, pressing the other's shoulder reassuringly. "But Boromir, what has happened between the two of you? I would help you if I can."

Boromir shook his head, irritation rising. "Nay, 'tis not I who needs your help, but he. He is overcome, he - " but he found himself hesitating, suddenly unwilling to speak of what had occurred. How could he explain to the Elf, one who seemed made of light, the darkness that had gripped him, the darkness he had felt trapping him and burning with the light of the Ring?

"Please, my friend," Legolas said softly, "for I would have us be friends and stand together against this threat. Tell me what has happened." 

Feeling an unfamiliar nervousness, Boromir tried to answer, wishing at once to unburden himself to this strange immortal creature and to be away from him, and choosing the former only because 'away' meant returning to the Ringbearer. Or, indeed, throwing himself into the Anduin, which no longer seemed a wise course of action. "He - we fought," he began. "He threatened my brother, drew his blade. He - ah, Legolas," Boromir whispered, closing his eyes, and Legolas was strangely relieved to hear his name on the other's lips. "He was as a man gone mad," Boromir went on. "He tasted my blood as though it were - I know not how to tell you. And all the while his knife at my throat and the Ring between us like fire and ice."

Legolas ducked his head and caught Boromir's gaze again. "He - tasted you?"

Inexplicably, Boromir felt heat rising beneath his skin, and was grateful for the darkness, wondering if Legolas could feel his shame. "Aye," he said between closed teeth, his throat constricting with the effort to keep his voice low and even. "Aye, he put his mouth to the wound at my temple and tasted the blood there," and he turned away and said softly, almost thoughtfully, "He said he tasted all of Gondor."

Legolas had never heard the Man admit to any part of fear, but clearly he was afraid, and Legolas began to understand why. He did not know how best to soothe the Man, so kept his hand gentle on the warrior's shoulder and said softly, "His blade at your throat, and he mad? There is no shame in fear at such a circumstance."

Boromir choked back a bitter laugh. "'Tis not my fear that shames me, Legolas," he said, "though I was afraid. No, 'tis not my fear that shames me, but that I crave that fear again, as much as I crave to escape it." Boromir shook his head, his lips twisted in a mockery of a smile. "You should leave us to our fate, Legolas," he said in a sigh. "Go back to your forests, and leave the would-be king and the Steward's heir to walk into Mordor and die, for that very power which provokes such fear in me is the power which can save my people, though I know - or I have been told - it will doom us all."

Legolas felt the blood drain from his face. "No, Boromir, no. No, the power which can save your people is that of Elessar, not that evil thing he bears." 

"Is it?" Boromir asked, and Legolas thought there was sincerity in the question, as though it was something Boromir had not considered before. "I know not how to tell one from the other," he said after a moment. "He is mad, he would -" and Boromir hesitated, reluctant to give his fear voice. Aragorn would kill Faramir, if he believed Faramir a threat. And Denethor, Denethor was a threat indeed, and no love was lost between the Steward and the one once called Thorongil.

Elessar, Thorongil, Aragorn, the Ringbearer. Which approached Mordor? Which would come to Minas Tirith? Finally Boromir raised his eyes to Legolas' and said, "What is the power of Elessar that he can save us when my father and I and Faramir and all our soldiers cannot? What is the power of Elessar that can save us if he cannot save himself?"

But before Legolas could formulate an answer, Aragorn's voice reached them and Boromir started violently.

"Boromir, Legolas," he said, and they turned. He had stood and was approaching, and Legolas winced inwardly that he had failed to hear the Man rise. "Such quiet conferences," he said. "What do you discuss?"

"Nothing of import," Legolas answered lightly. "Boromir was telling me of Minas Tirith."

Aragorn smiled. "She is worth telling of."

"She is worth all things," said Boromir, his voice soft. All things but one. Worth the struggles, worth the fear, worth the bloodshed, worth the blade. Worth all things. All things but the Raven.

Aragorn had insisted Legolas sleep that night, and now in the darkness he stood watching his two companions. The Elf lay with his eyes half-open, the dreaming gaze cast upon far shores, and Aragorn wondered, as he often did, what dreams Elves dreamed. Of growing things, and music, and the scent of sunlight, he supposed. Boromir slept a little ways away, wrapped, as always, in his cloak and blankets, and this time the Ranger could discern that he did sleep in fact, not just in seeming. Soft as a fox he stepped through the night to stand over him, and saw that even in sleep his face was troubled. He dreamt not of sunlight.

The dreams of Men Aragorn knew. The dreams of Men he understood. He had dreamt of the Evenstar for many nights, her smooth, cool skin, her infinite eyes, her lips which he had felt pressed so often to his brow, his cheek, his eyelids, his hands, but never to his mouth. Her hair a cascade of midnight, wrought in silk and stars.

And he had dreamt of the White City, her splendour, her towers, the gleam of her stones in the misty mornings. He had dreamt of Ecthelion, and of the child Boromir, and of the man. He recalled now the taste of him, the rich, warm fragrance, the strength in his body and his heart. He would be a great Steward, Aragorn thought. He wondered about his brother, Faramir, and recalled the mad look on Boromir's face when Aragorn had mentioned killing him. He had not thought to provoke quite so violent a response, but he knew now where the weakness was. The only uncertainty was how, and whether, to exploit it.

For he had also dreamt of the flames which would consume the City and all within her if Sauron was not destroyed. Aragorn bowed his head then, closing his eyes against the pain that threatened. The White City, the man before him, Imladris, the Shire - all in the world that Aragorn or Thorongil or Strider had ever loved would be lost if they did not find a way. He brought his hands up and clasped them behind his neck, shutting his eyes so tightly he saw stars, and his gut clenched when he thought of doing harm to Faramir or Boromir or even their father, but all - all was allowable if it meant Gondor and the West were safe. Boromir had said so himself - the White City, and all that she represented, was worth all things.

Time was running short, and he alone would have to find the way. Even now, he knew, it was likely that Saruman moved armies against Rohan, and even if Saruman were defeated there, the combined armies of Rohan and Gondor could not stand against the terror that would flow from the Black Lands if the Ring was not destroyed. And how soon, how soon? He knew not. He wished again that Gandalf had not fallen.

_All of Sauron's mind would be known to him, and Sauron's servants would become his servants. And it would not take him in a day...._

Aragorn shut his mind against the thought, but around his neck, the Ring grew warm, and heavy, and he touched it with his finger, traced the curve of it. After a long time he knelt to a crouch beside Boromir, wondering what he and Legolas had been speaking of by the river. He had known Legolas dissembled, but had not wished for hard words between himself and his friend. He could know, if he wished, from Boromir. But he did not want to wake him only to ask after a conversation which, in all likelihood, would make no difference in the end.

As he crouched there, watching the soldier, Boromir's eyes opened.

Aragorn smiled.

Confused, Boromir turned slightly to face him. "Is it my watch?" he asked.

"Not for some hours," Aragorn replied. "I did not mean to wake you."

Shaking his head, Boromir half-rose on one elbow. "I do not think you did," he said, his voice heavy with sleep. "I merely woke. I dreamed, I think."

"What did you dream?"

Boromir frowned, trying to remember, his mind still fogged. "Of Minas Tirith," he said at last, "and my father. Faramir, on the river."

"You fear for them," said Aragorn, that vision of the White City in flames, of Sauron rising to the height of his power, flaring in his mind again. "You fear what will happen to them."

Boromir tensed, feeling a chill run down the back of his neck. He shook his head. "No, Aragorn," he said gently, "I - I know it is right that you take the throne, that my father step down. I know you will be a just king."

Surprised, Aragorn suddenly realized Boromir had mistaken him. And also, that Boromir feared him. Feared what he might do when he took the throne. Feared that he would _not_ be a just king, after all. He felt his anger rising.

There was a silken pause. "Lie to me again, Boromir," said Aragorn at last, his voice low. Boromir looked at him sharply, and refused the impulse to back away. "Lie to me again, if you feel you must," said Aragorn, "but I am finished with telling you not to. If you do it again, the consequences will be severe." One finger strayed to the warrior's hand where he gripped his cloak, and the touch made Boromir's skin shiver and his breath catch in his throat. "Tell me," said Aragorn, "do you fear for them?" A long moment passed while Boromir tried to formulate an answer that would not lead to violence. "Answer my question," Aragorn said.

Boromir still hesitated. This was the man Legolas said was the salvation of Gondor, the salvation of the West? What salvation was here? Where was Elessar in whom Legolas had such faith? What hope did he have, when the king desired more to be conqueror than savior?

"Then yes," Boromir said, anger creeping into his tone. "Of course I fear for them, Aragorn. You come to take the throne, and from you I still receive violence and threats, mistrust and - and these fey moods." He sat up fully and faced the Ranger. "Of course I fear for them, and no less so for having spoken truly. What do you expect of me?" he asked, his voice rising. "I tell you it is right you take the throne and I do not lie - you have the power, the lineage," and he started to rise but Aragorn's hand on his chest stopped him, and he bit back a snarl. "And you have the weapon of the enemy - who else to take the throne but you? But know this, _Elessar_," he said, the name a curse and a prayer, and this time when Aragorn put his hand out to push Boromir away the warrior brushed it aside and brought his face close to the Ranger's. "If you harm any in my family," he said in a low growl, his eyes locked on Aragorn's, "any of my people without cause that I know to be just, I will see you dead and your body left for the carrion birds." He let out a short bark that might have been a laugh, and sat back. "You will be a just king, my lord," he said, "for if you are not, you will be a dead king."

_____________

_A/N: Thanks to Tay ("fileg" - h t t p : / / mywebpages . comcast . net / gryphonsmith / write . html and please pardon the wacky spaces in the url - it's fanfiction.net not letting me even display a url) for Boromir and Faramir as the Blade of Gondor and the Raven of Ithilien. Used with permission._


	7. Common Purpose

Fury flickered in Aragorn's eyes. "You are as arrogant as your father," he spat, "and not half as circumspect! How do you think a 'just king' would deal with one who spoke so?" 

With a snarl, Boromir surged to his feet, and Aragorn rose with him. "Gods, Aragorn, will you _cease_ this?" he said angrily. "Do I fear for them, do I trust you, what would a just king do -" and he broke off, scowling. When he spoke again, his voice was lower but no less angry. "If this is a game, then tell me the rules, but cease these endless questions, these veiled threats!" he said sharply. "Yes, I fear for them, and no, I do not trust you nor do you give me reason to, and you are no king yet! How many times, how many ways would you have me say it? Mad, yes, you are that," he said recklessly, "but must you drive me mad as well?"

"I am mad?" Aragorn said, fury turning to amazement. "You drove Frodo to abandon this quest out of fear of you, and you tell me _I_ am mad?"

And then Legolas was between them. "Both of you cease!" he said in a hoarse whisper. "Your voices carry on the water - would you bring all the armies of the Enemy down on us this night?"

"The armies of the Enemy will cover Middle-earth like fire and ash if we do not defeat him!" Aragorn said, his voice lowered now, but raw. "And yet we carry it to him in his own land!" Startled, Legolas turned to him and saw a glint in his eyes, an expression on Aragorn's face that he had not seen before. "We carry it into his very hands," Aragorn went on, "and yet you fear that our _voices_ will - will -" but he hesitated then, searching the darkness for words, seeing everywhere the flicker of light that the Ring seemed to cast. They carried it to its master, but - no, they went to destroy it. To destroy it, though it had the power to destroy Sauron and all his creatures. And in his mind a vision of the White City, and Arwen's skin, white as those stone walls, soft as the scent of roses on the air -

"Aragorn," said Boromir, reaching out to grasp the Ranger's arm, and Aragorn started violently, turned to Boromir, and their gazes locked, anger vanishing like mist in a flame. All of Gondor was between them, and within them, and all of Gondor would fall if they did not prevail. Aragorn reached unthinkingly towards Boromir, and Boromir's fear left him in a rush, his king before him, and the glitter of power, the salvation of his people.

Then Legolas stepped close to Aragorn and Boromir fell back, uncertain. Had there been a promise in Aragorn's eyes?

"Aragorn," said Legolas softly, one hand on the Man's neck, the other on his face."Aragorn, what are you thinking? Tell me, mellon nîn, tell me now."

Aragorn scarcely felt the touch of the Elf, his eyes distant, lost in the fire that would consume the world, lost in the fire with which he could defeat the Enemy. What folly did they pursue, taking this weapon back to the one who made it? "We cannot," he murmured. "He will find us, he will take it."

"No," Legolas said, "no, he will not. We will destroy it, and its destruction will be his end. Aragorn, you know this."

"But not in time," said Aragorn sharply, his voice low and urgent. "Even now the borders of Gondor falter. Even now, the White City stands at the edge of her doom, and her allies are pressed too hard by enemies of their own, within and without. If Gondor falls, none can stand!"

"Gondor will not fall!" Legolas said, "not unless we fail in our task. But all is lost if we do not do this thing!"

"And all is lost if we do it!" said Boromir sharply. "Aragorn is right - Rohan is the only ally who will come at need and she is faltering. Who else can we look to for aid?" he asked, turning angry eyes on Legolas. "The Elves? They have long since forsaken what alliances they had with Men! It is only to one another we can turn, and there is no _time_!"

"We lingered too long in Imladris, and in Lothlórien," said Aragorn, his voice heavy with regret and frustration. "Two months in the North and with nothing to show for it but the bodies of black horses, and another month tarrying in the Golden Wood. Our time grows short indeed."

Legolas drew Aragorn close then and began speaking softly, words in Elvish, and Boromir watched the struggle between the Elf and the Man - not a physical struggle, for Aragorn did not move to escape Legolas' grip, but the struggle as their wills met, Legolas pleading and Aragorn answering heatedly, and the words of Gandalf, of Elrond - words he had accepted, but never fully believed - came rushing back to him. What was to be done? Kill the bearer and seize the Ring? Allow Aragorn to claim it himself - but to what ends? Or follow this long path to the end of everything he knew? For whether they defeated Sauron or not, his world would come apart. He turned away, turned his back on the struggle, and looked towards the river that shimmered darkly in the moonlight.

"No!" Aragorn said then, pulling free from Legolas and stepping back, towards the water's edge. "No," he said more softly, "I do not plan to supplant Sauron, Legolas, no."

Legolas watched him warily. "Aragon," he said softly. "Are you well enough to bear this thing?"

Aragorn turned on him angrily. "And if I am not, who shall?" he snapped. "You? Will the purity of the Elves save you from its corruption? We have seen how the blood of Men responds to its call," and he shot Boromir a withering glance, but Boromir saw it not, his gaze following the Anduin.

Somewhere on that river, thought Boromir, his brother searched for him. He remembered Faramir's parting words to him... 'Be home by spring, brother,' he had said, the mirth in those grey eyes hiding the seriousness that lay beneath, 'or I shall come looking.' It was scarcely spring, but somewhere, he knew, Faramir searched for him. Who else, he wondered, searched along that river for the Ring and its bearer?

"When Gimli and the Halflings reach Lothlórien," he murmured, "do you think they will like what has happened?" He turned to face them, the Elf and the Man gazing at him in the moonlight. "Do you think they will send after us," he said, his gaze falling on Aragorn, "or do they trust you this much?"

"Who?" asked Aragorn. "Not Gimli. Celeborn and Galadriel?" He shook his head, his expression sour. "They care not what happens beyond their borders, or did you fail to see that?"

"The Lady showed me hope," Boromir said quietly, not answering Aragorn, "though not the means to it."

"Our hope lies in the Ring's destruction," said Legolas, "for only with that is Sauron defeated utterly!"

"Not only with that," said Aragorn softly, shaking his head and raising his eyes to Legolas'. "Not only with that," he repeated, and went on, "Gandalf has told me, if one of power, or of royal blood were to claim the Ring, all Sauron's mind and heart would be revealed to him, and Sauron would be overthrown and defeated. And all that served Sauron would would forsake him and follow the Ring's new master."

Legolas had paled as Aragorn spoke. "Estel," he whispered, "you cannot think to claim it. You cannot. You would set yourself on Sauron's throne?"

Aragorn scowled. "No, Legolas, no, but this could -"

"Could what?" Legolas spat. "How can this thing of evil do aught of good?"

"If it could turn back the tide of Sauron's forces," said Boromir, "that would be a great good indeed, to the eyes of one who has spent a lifetime trying to stop that tide from breaking on his people!"

"Your people will be crushed as surely as if Sauron had won!" said Legolas, turning furiously to Boromir.

"I would not supplant Sauron, Legolas," Aragorn said sharply, "but Boromir - the White City," and the Ring was a warm and comforting weight in his hand, still his, not lost, not delivered to its maker, and he felt it shiver through him as moonlight shivers through a dreamer waking beneath the stars.

Legolas took a quick step forward, but Aragorn caught the movement and knew the Elf reached for the Ring. Unthinking, he felt the sudden hard impact of his hand on Legolas' face, heard the choked cry from Boromir, and Legolas had fallen to one knee, the unexpected blow staggering him.

"Aragorn!" Boromir's voice was a gasp, and Aragorn glanced at him, dropped his gaze to where the Elf knelt on the marshy ground. Saw Boromir swiftly kneel beside Legolas and Legolas brush away the Gondorian's touch. The ancient eyes were flecked with anger as Legolas raised his head to look at Aragorn, but his expression turned quickly to soft sadness, and Aragorn shook his head as if to clear it, his breath coming sharp into his lungs.

"Aragorn," Boromir repeated, and Legolas stood.

"Estel," Legolas said gently, stepping forward and raising his hand to cup Aragorn's cheek, and Aragorn's gaze took in the strange familiarity of the ethereal creature, and he wondered at how flesh and bone dwelt beneath that silken skin. Redness touched the place Aragorn had struck, blood rising to the surface. Legolas' voice was swan's down on the wind. "It calls to you," he murmured. "I know."

Only then realizing he held it, Aragorn dropped the Ring as though it burned him, and Legolas caught both Aragorn's hands in his own and drew him close again, whispering soft and heated words in Elvish. A moment passed in stillness, Aragorn suffering himself to be held, his eyes drifting closed as Legolas spoke, and then he pulled free again and stepped away, watching both his companions warily.

"Legolas is right," he said, his voice low. "I shall bear this thing, and shall - shall cast it back into the fires that made it."

His voice faltered, and Boromir felt more than heard the Ringbearer promise the Ring's destruction.

He shook his head in disbelief. "Aragorn, what of Minas Tirith?" he said, pleading. "You have struck a cruel blow, to speak so of the White City, to speak of her faltering, falling, and yet still refuse to use what weapon we have!"

Aragorn rounded on Boromir. "I will strike more cruelly yet if you question me!" he said fiercely, and saw Boromir's gaze fall on the Ring glittering just beneath the linen of his shirt, power radiating from it as heat from a fire. Aragorn stepped forward and caught Boromir's jaw in his hand, forcing the Gondorian to meet his gaze. "You will beg me to treat you as well as I did the creature Gollum," he whispered, "if you try to take this thing from me, or to sway my mind from our purpose. I tamed him, wild and savage and desperate though he was," he said, a murmured threat, like the threat of death that slides along the edge of a blade. "Think not that I cannot tame you."

The power of the Ring seemed to surround them both, but it was familiar now, as familiar as these sudden changes in Aragorn's mood, these shifts in his thinking. His king before him, the glitter of power... and Faramir's voice a sudden whisper, a cool breath slipping through the tongues of flame that licked at his heart. Boromir closed his eyes, Aragorn's grip painfully strong, but he did not move to escape it, and he let the memory of his brother ease through his mind, and stay him from acting. After a moment, Aragorn released him, and Boromir staggered backwards a pace.

Legolas watched the exchange with a sense of hollow alarm. Aragorn had seemed to be taken by the Ring, yes, but he had thrown it off, had he not? Had he? Its evil still pulled at both Men, that was clear, but Aragorn had resisted it, had - had -

He touched the bruise that would rise on his cheek. If Aragorn had not spoken of his sorrow for the blow he had struck, surely Legolas had seen it in those silvery eyes.

"Boromir," said Aragorn then, and both Man and Elf turned to him. "Boromir," he said again, more softly, and stretched out his hand towards the other. "Let us be friends, Boromir. We have a common purpose."

Boromir hesitated only a moment. If Aragorn wished for comradeship, and Faramir was indeed even now searching for them, he would give Aragorn comradeship. All else could be determined later; now, he wished only for the violence of the Ringbearer's moods to be placated. He clasped the other's hand, and let himself be drawn into Aragorn's strong embrace.

Long into the night, Legolas watched the sleeping Men, and wondered. Yes, Aragorn's temper was short, and his wrath more often expressed than in less troubled times, but was that strange? They all felt the strain of their journey, had felt it for weeks, and Aragorn, in truth, for much longer. And though he was quick to anger, once the blow was struck his anger was quick to dissipate as well, and no damage had been done, truly, had it? The Gondorian bore the marks of their struggles, yes, though Aragorn was not unscathed by his rival, but the injuries were scrapes, easily bound and quick to heal. And this - he touched the bruise again - this was a small thing. He had had worse in the playful scuffles of his youth. Perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps this was all that was required - obedience from the Steward's son, and wordless forgiveness between himself and Aragorn.

Aragorn and Boromir lay close together, and Legolas watched them, the rise and fall of their broad chests, and all through the night, the Men's breathing never ceased to match.

**Minas Tirith**

Faramir was preparing to saddle his mount when he heard the familiar voice and turned, startled, to see the wizard lit by the torches that warmed the pre-dawn dimness of the stables. A smile leapt to his face. "Mithrandir!"

"I was told I would find you here," the other answered as Faramir strode forward to meet him.

"Had you been but a few moments later we might have missed each other," he said. "I am leaving on an errand."

"I have a greater errand for you," Gandalf said, "no matter how urgent the one you already undertake."

Faramir shook his head, frowning. "I think not," he replied, "but ask of me what you will, and I will do it if I can."

Faramir's face grew pale at Gandalf's reply. "It concerns your brother."

"My brother," he murmured. "What do you know of Boromir?"

"Your brother reached Imladris," Gandalf said, "though I fear he may not have liked what he found there."

"Is he well?" asked Faramir, careful to keep his voice even. "Where is he?"

Gandalf shook his head. "He was well as of some days ago," he replied, "or as well as could be expected," and Faramir scowled.

"Please, Mithrandir, speak plainly! Where is Boromir?"

"Patience, child," Gandalf said, and Faramir bridled at his words but quelled his sharp response. This was Mithrandir, his friend, and - more important, at the moment - a wise counselor and one who had, it seemed, laid eyes on Boromir within the past weeks. "Let me tell you what has passed," Gandalf went on, "and then we shall speak of where Boromir may be, and what might be done to aid him, and to aid us all."

The sun was over the horizon before Gandalf finished his tale, and Faramir stood from where they had been seated in his rooms and moved to gaze out the window. "So, the king returns," he said at last, "yet has seized this weapon which you-"

"Not seized," Gandalf said, interrupting, "but accepted. I believe he only wanted to help Frodo."

Faramir turned to face him, and Gandalf was surprised by the wariness in the other's countenance. Had so much of Denethor entered the boy's character? "And you would have me go in search of them," Faramir said, "to try to - " and he hesitated. "To try to do what, exactly?"

Gandalf sighed. "Had I known Aragorn was so," he began, almost to himself, then faltered, and continued softly, "had I known he would accept the Ring, or that Frodo would offer it, I would have ordered things differently." He shook his head and took a breath. "The Ring is treacherous, and uses even our better selves against us. It will work on your brother's pride, and his love of Gondor, and also on Aragorn's, and his sense of duty and of destiny," he said, and Faramir's studied expression belied the anger that had begun to seethe below the surface. Too often had he heard his brother accused of pride as though it were a shameful thing. Proud he might be, but not without cause, and always, always the good of his land, his Steward, and his men had come before all. "You, my young scholar," Gandalf went on, "have never let pride rule you, and you see, I think, where strength and power must be eschewed 'ere they come to ill ends."

Faramir paused, considering which of the conversational paths he might take, and then said, "I will go to find my brother, as you must have known I would. I am glad you ask it of me, for it had been my intent and your tidings give me both greater hope and a clearer path."

Gandalf nodded, and would have spoken, but Faramir continued, his voice cool as water. "You have often thought of my brother as our father's creature, I think," he said calmly, and Gandalf looked up. "And I think you may have believed that I look to Boromir as part hero, part tool." He paused, meeting Gandalf's gaze. "It is not so," he said. "I see my brother's faults, but I think you see only his faults, and it will not serve you to underestimate him."

"I do not, Faramir," said Gandalf, shaking his head. "He is Gondor's champion. Yet I deem he could not be so did he not take joy in battle, and pride in power, and this will make him vulnerable to the Ring."

Faramir turned back to the window. "Boromir's heart belongs first to Gondor," he said, "and if he takes pride in protecting her, I will not fault him. But you wrong him if you think he finds joy in killing, or that in desiring power he has anything but the good of Gondor in his heart."

"It matters not," said Gandalf. "The Ring will corrupt it. It has started its work even before we entered Moria, and in that pit all evil gains strength."

After a moment, Faramir turned back to Gandalf. "Tell me more of the one you say would be king," he said. "The one who... 'accepted' this weapon. Does he have my brother's faith?"

"He had your grandfather's faith," Gandalf replied, and Faramir raised an eloquent brow.

"And that should comfort me?" he said. "Aragorn served Ecthelion under a false name and never admitted to his lineage, vanished into Mordor with none knowing him truly, and now is somewhere on the Great River with my brother, an Elf, and the Ruling Ring, and this should prove his worth to me?" He shook his head, watching Gandalf finish filling the wooden bowl of the pipe. "Come," he said at last, annoyed to hear the irritation in his own voice. "If you would light that thing, let us at least go out into the fresh air."

With a slight smile, Gandalf inclined his head and rose, and together they left Faramir's chambers and made their way out into the courtyard. Morning sun gleamed on the white paving stones, turning them gold and pink.

"You did not answer me," said Faramir as they walked towards the fountain. "Does Aragorn have my brother's faith?"

Gandalf sighed. "I cannot answer you, Faramir," he said, "for I do not know, but he has my faith."

"What of the vision I told you of?" Faramir asked, ignoring Gandalf's last remark. "This surrender I felt? Could it mean that Aragorn has already claimed the Ring himself?"

Shaking his head, Gandalf answered, "I know not that either. I do not believe so, for had he, Sauron would have been overthrown, and I think that even now you here on the borders of Mordor would have seen some change, some sign."

Faramir's expression darkened. "Do you tell me that if Aragorn claims this thing, Sauron will be defeated in that moment?"

Gandalf turned to Faramir and answered sternly, "Sauron, yes, but also Aragorn, and all the free peoples, for we would only replace one dark lord with another."

Faramir nodded slowly, ignoring the wariness in the wizard's gaze. After a time he said softly, "In that moment?"

"The One Ring cannot be used, Faramir son of Denethor," Gandalf replied. "It is wholly evil, and no good end can come of it."

"Only ill ends approach us now," Faramir replied calmly. "Or do you know of aid which has been kept secret from me?"

"Faramir," said Gandalf, reaching out to grasp the other's shoulder. "If you believe nothing else I have ever told you, believe this: all is lost if the Ring is claimed, by Sauron or any other! If Aragorn claims the Ring, he will grow terrible in power and the desire for power, and all of Gondor and the West will fall to him. Our only hope is in the Ring's destruction, for then is Sauron overthrown and no new evil set in his place."

Nodding, Faramir said, "I am glad for your counsel, Mithrandir, as always."

"You have ever been Boromir's strength," Gandalf said urgently, "Do not fail him now, at the last. Find them, and see that the Ring is destroyed."

With a sigh, Faramir answered, "I will not fail my brother, old friend. No, I will not fail him. But again you did not answer me."

Gandalf stood, leaning heavily on his staff. "No, Faramir," he said, his voice weary. "Not in that moment. But all too soon, and I do not believe that you, or your brother, or any of us could overthrow him when his power is gained."

"And how long before his power is gained?" asked Faramir.

"The power to defeat your will?" asked Gandalf sternly. "The power to defeat your brother's will, and bind you both to him so you could not move against him?" Gandalf's voice was stone and iron. "That would happen as soon as the Ring was his."

Faramir nodded thoughtfully. "I see," he said after a time. "I see. But tell me, Mithrandir," he said then. "How is it that Sauron could ever have been defeated in the first place?"

Gandalf frowned. "I do not understand you," he said.

Faramir glanced east, towards Mount Doom. "When Isildur took up the sword and cut the ring from Sauron's hand," he said, "how could he have done so if the Ringlord could bind all minds to him, and prevent them acting against him?"

Scowling now, Gandalf replied impatiently, "I know not. Some trick of fate, perhaps, and I would not trust fate to be so kind a second time. You must believe me," he went on, his tone urgent. "The Ring is altogether evil, and cannot be used! Our only hope is its destruction."

Faramir nodded again, thoughtfully, and said, "I will find my brother, and do what must be done."

Gandalf watched him for a moment, then shook his head. "I must return to Rohan," he said finally. "There is much to be done there if they are to aid Gondor when this tide breaks against you."

"I fear their help will be too little, and far too late," said Faramir, "but do what you can, my friend." Faramir touched his hand as they turned towards the Gate and said softly, "You know, Boromir has ever been my strength, as well."

Blue eyes met grey, and held, and after a moment, Gandalf nodded. "I know," he said. "I know."

**On the Anduin**

Haldir and Orophin had traveled through the night and into morning, and when they reached Emyn Muil, they slowed, maneuvering their light boats towards the shore and looking for signs of another's passage. Finally, Orophin waved to his brother and Haldir joined him.

"Here, they brought the boats from the water. The tracks lead towards the North Stair."

"If they brought the boats with them, then they will have carried them down the stair and will have returned to the river."

Orophin nodded briefly, and said, "Shall we follow?"

In short order they had made their way down the long stair and after a quick search for sign of their quarry, returned to the river themselves.

After a time, Orophin said, "Mithrandir spoke of a Man of Gondor, the brother of the one who travels with Estel."

"Faramir, second son of Gondor's Steward. I remember. What of him?"

"He commands men in Ithilien; his brother will know this. The question we must answer is whether they will travel towards Mordor in secret, through Ithilien where these Southern Rangers are, or will go to Minas Tirith where the Steward's eldest son has soldiers."

"You mean that if they go to destroy it, they will choose Ithilien, but if one of the Men claims the Ring, they will go to Minas Tirith and from there to attack Sauron."

Orophin shrugged. "It seems likely."

Haldir shook his head. "If one of the Men claims the Ring, is not all lost?"

"So the wise tell us," Orophin replied.

"Then if they were to travel to Minas Tirith, we could believe all would have been lost?"

"It would seem so."

Haldir smiled slightly, though from his own boat Orophin did not see. "You doubt it," said Haldir.

"No, no," said Orophin thoughtfully. "I only think that even when all is lost, as long as one lives, one must attempt some victory."

They traveled some ways further before Haldir spoke again. "I do not think Estel will claim the Ring." Orophin was silent, and after a moment Haldir went on, "I do not think he will claim it, but if he does, I wonder how long it will be before the Ring claims him."

"I think that Estel is stronger than most Men, and he lived long with the Elves," said Orophin, "and has spent many years hardening himself against just such a thing as this. Preparing himself." He paused, then said, "I think it would not take him all at once. We might have time to - to do what must be done."

"Are we certain of what that is?"

Orophin laughed. "Well, no my brother, we are not. But perhaps things will order themselves such that we may know when the time comes."

Another few miles swept past, and Haldir said, "If they reach Ithilien before either of the Men succumb to this thing," but he hesitated then, and trailed off.

"You would not wish to find us pitted against the whole company this Faramir commands," Orophin said, guessing his brother's train of thought.

"I would not," Haldir replied.

"Well," said Orophin, "Mithrandir seemed to put great faith in him. Perhaps we worry needlessly."

"Perhaps. Still, I wish we had a firmer plan."

"Yes," Orophin said with a chuckle. "'Right this wrong' is not the most detailed of strategies."

Haldir chuckled as well, and said, "Perhaps, as you said, things will order themselves for us."

"And if they do not," said Orophin, "we will make our opportunities and take what victory we can."


	8. Convergence

"If we travel to Mordor through Ithilien, we should turn east soon," said Boromir. "The river will carry us to Osgiliath and Minas Tirith - we should strike out overland before we reach Cair Andros." 

"Do you have a goal in mind, Captain?" asked Aragorn archly, and Boromir ignored his tone.

"I do," he replied. "Faramir's men have an outpost hidden beneath a stream that runs down from the Ephel Dúath."

Aragorn shot Boromir a skeptical glance. "And you think we can approach this undetected? How little faith you must have in your brother's Rangers."

Biting back a sharp response, Boromir said calmly, "I know we will not approach undetected, nor do I mean for us to. How should we request their help if we do not meet them?"

Legolas listened to the Men bicker back and forth, growing more annoyed with them than he liked, and found himself wishing irrationally for their previous tempers. At least then their arguments would come to a head and subside, and Legolas would have peace for a time. These constant petty squabbles were more wearing on his nerves than he would have believed possible, so when in the early evening they brought the boats to the shore, he took the opportunity to escape the irritation, slipping into the trees to scout their surroundings.

"Shall we hide the boats, or leave them to float downriver?" asked Boromir, gazing thoughtfully at the deep gouge left in the earth by Aragorn's boat where he had stumbled bringing it ashore. "We will not return by the river, if we return at all, and while I doubt we can hide the fact that we brought boats in here, if any are following, then pushing them back into the current might throw our pursuers off."

"Who would be following, Boromir?" asked Aragorn wearily. "We have had no sign of Orcs. Do you think Galadriel has sent assassins after us?" his tone chilly with sarcasm.

"Are you certain she will not have?" asked Boromir. "She will know by now that you bear the Ring; will she trust you with it, or will she send after you to seize it?"

Aragorn hesitated, then sighed, bringing his hand to his forehead. "Do as you see fit," he murmured at last. "I care not."

Boromir eyed Aragorn warily. This was not like the Ranger, and after a moment Boromir went to him, cupping Aragorn's chin in his hand and regarding him. Aragorn seemed to almost tremble under his touch, as did a man exhausted after battle, and his gaze was uncertain, angry and haunted, the gaze of an animal that has not yet decided whether to slip away into the shadows or to lunge.

Hoping he hid his sudden alarm, Boromir released him."You are unwell," he said, then with a firm gentleness he steered Aragorn towards the treeline and seated him on a patch of dry ground at the base of one of the tall pines.

Aragorn waved him away irritably and ineffectually. "I am well enough, Captain, you need not play nursemaid."

"Stay here," Boromir said, ignoring Aragorn's tone. "I will deal with the boats, and you will sit quietly and rest for a time."

Aragorn started to protest, but found he lacked the will, and instead watched Boromir as the broad-shouldered Gondorian finished unloading the boats, then weighted them with stones and pushed them back into the current of the river. When he returned, he extended his hand to Aragorn.

"We must move further from shore. I am going to build a small fire and brew some of that tea you like so well," he said. "With luck, Legolas will think to bring us meat for supper - you could use something more substantial than that Elvish waybread, as could I."

Once again Aragorn protested, but his voice was weak and once again Boromir ignored him, leaning down to take his hand and pulling him to his feet. Annoyed but compliant, Aragorn followed Boromir along the path Legolas had taken, coming soon to a small clearing well-hidden from the river, where Boromir settled the Ranger again at the base of a pine. And in truth, Aragorn was grateful for the chance to sit quietly, and to make no decisions, just for a little while. Unthinkingly he raised his hand to the Ring, his fingers touching the soft curve of it, and watched Boromir turn to set about the tasks he'd given himself.

As he walked back to the boats to gather their packs, Boromir tried to shake the feeling of Aragorn's eyes on him. It had been a trying day, so much of Boromir's energies turned towards not sparking the Ranger's anger, but the low flickering of irritability had been almost as difficult to bear as Aragorn's fury. Indeed, Boromir felt almost as weary now as if he had ridden hard for a day and a night, and he knelt a moment by the river, taking deep, slow breaths.

The sound of the water washed over him, and he let his mind drift, feeling the crush of the stones and sand beneath his knees, and the play of the breeze across his skin. "Ah, Aragorn," he whispered. "Who have you become? Who are you becoming? The king I did not know I wished for, or a creature of Shadow who will burn our people to ash?" 

He raised his eyes to the glimmering water, then glanced back towards where he knew Aragorn waited, and he wondered at how weary, how drained the other man seemed. "Is this whence comes your illness," he murmured, "from the war between the Ring and your own heart? And if you took the battlefield, claimed the Ring, what then? Your war over, and ours, and to which end?" 

Finally he shook himself slightly and stood. "King or conqueror," he said quietly, "I shall accept or challenge when the time comes, but 'tis of no use to sit here sighing over questions like a poet." With that, he set about erasing the marks of his activities from the shore. 

When he finished, he regarded his work. He saw the signs of a short camp, of boats brought to shore, then loaded again and drawn back into the Anduin. "Well, it will not deceive a skilled tracker who looks to find we've left the river," he muttered, "but I've not my brother's skill, and it should pass a quick inspection by one who expects us to keep to the current." He considered how he might improve matters, but could think of nothing, and with a short sigh he muttered, "It shall have to serve," and turned back towards the clearing, careful to erase his steps as he went.

Aragorn had not moved by the time Boromir returned, and with eyes half-closed, he watched the swift, efficient movements of the man who would one day be his Steward as he went about the business of starting the fire and setting the water to heat. Aragorn's nerves felt coiled, ready to strike - had felt so since they had risen that morning, and had grown more tightly wound each time Boromir had questioned or refused him - but there was something satisfying in the way Boromir had turned his actions towards soothing Aragorn.

Or at least, towards seeming to. Aragorn's eyes narrowed as the thought flickered across his mind that this might be no more than a ploy.

Finally, Boromir joined Aragorn by the base of the tree, and once again cupped the other's chin in his hand, scrutinizing him closely, touching his forehead, then his cheeks, pressing the sides of his jaw and his throat, and touching his pulse thoughtfully for a time. Aragorn sat unresisting throughout the examination, which was neither rough nor particularly tender, and fought the impulse to laugh at Boromir's ministrations. The younger man clearly knew what he was about, but Aragorn could see only the grey-eyed child he remembered from some forty years earlier, serious and determined.

At length, Boromir released him. "You do not seem to be ill, exactly," he said, "but you are clearly unwell. How do you feel?"

"Tired," said Aragorn, leaning back and closing his eyes, his hand again coming thoughtlessly to the golden circle suspended on its silver chain. He stroked it absently, its warmth soothing to him, and some of the weariness seemed to leave him. "Though better than I had. I will be fine, little one," he murmured, and Boromir's breath caught. "But I thank you for your care."

Boromir shrugged, watching Aragorn, the words 'little one' ringing in his head like a blow. "You will be no help to any of us if you fall too ill to travel," he said quietly, and Aragorn smiled.

Neither spoke again until the water had boiled, the tea had steeped, and Boromir had handed Aragorn the warm cup.

Taking a cautious sip, Aragorn found the brew very close to how he would have made it himself. "Thank you, Captain," he said. "It is very good."

"I am glad if it meets your approval."

Aragorn glanced at him. "You are solicitous today," he said. "Is there something on your mind?"

Startled, Boromir frowned. "No more than has been," he replied. "Whatever our disagreements, if a comrade is unwell, one does what one can to help. Does one not?"

Raising an eyebrow, Aragorn nodded. "Yes, I suppose one does."

Boromir kept his expression carefully neutral, his gaze lighting only briefly on the place where Aragorn's hand touched the Ring. Boromir could feel it more strongly now than he had since Aragorn had first taken it from Frodo, though he did not know why. Was it their growing proximity to Mordor and to Minas Tirith that had caused its pull to return? the Ringbearer's sudden weakness?

Yet, at the same time that he felt the lure grow stronger, he also found it easier to resist, for though at times he wished for the Ring's destruction, and at times he wished for its use, at no time did he find that he wished to wrest it from the one who now carried it. The crackle of power that surged around Aragorn when he was angered was not lessened by the gentle kindness he showed when appeased, and though Boromir felt no greater trust for him than he had, he recognized strength when he met it. For all Aragorn was weary now, his was the power to rule the Ring, if it was anyone's. His was the power to destroy it, or to wield it. Boromir was certain of that, if of nothing else.

Aragorn's eyes were closed now, his breathing light and even. Boromir watched him as though he were a sleeping lion which might at any moment wake and lunge, but as he watched, he turned his mind to the possibilities before him.

When Legolas returned, he did indeed bring meat, and though it was tough, it was plentiful, and they all felt better having eaten.

And feeling somewhat better, Aragorn's temper revived.

"No, Boromir," he said, "I am not so weak as you seem to suppose, or," and he scowled at the other, "as perhaps you would wish me to be. I shall take my watch and you will do as I bid you."

Frowning, Boromir shook his head. "If you are ill, Aragorn, or fall ill," he began, but Aragorn cut him off.

"Why do you fight me at every turn?" he snapped. "Truly, Captain, if you are this recalcitrant when the Steward commands you it is little wonder he sent you to seek for the Elves, if only to be rid of a difficult son."

An icy chill spread through Boromir's veins and he gritted his teeth against a reply, for there was no reply he could make to that would not set blazing the spark of Aragorn's anger. It seemed the Ringbearer's mood had returned. Finally he murmured, "As you will, Aragorn."

Legolas took a breath. "That is settled, then," he said. "I shall take first watch, Boromir the second, and Aragorn last watch."

"No," said Aragorn. "I shall take second watch. Boromir shall take first, and you third."

"Estel," said Legolas softly, "Boromir's concern is not without cause. Would you not do better to take your rest uninterrupted?"

"Legolas, I have decided," Aragorn said sharply.

Legolas opened his mouth to protest, for he hoped to have the chance to speak with Boromir alone, but the dark look in Aragorn's eyes warned him off. "Very well then," he said at last. 

Later, he watched Boromir's silhouette, darker black against the blue-black night, and waited to hear the rhythm of Aragorn's breathing change from wakefulness to sleep. When finally it did, he waited for some time longer, then silently rose and slipped over to where Boromir sat, letting a whisper of movement announce his approach.

Boromir turned at the soft brush of air, catching the familiar scent of the Elf, and saw Legolas in the dimness. He nodded to the other, and Legolas came and sat beside him.

"Sleep eludes you?" asked Boromir quietly.

"I wished to speak with you," Legolas murmured, his ears trained for any sign that Aragorn woke.

"Speak, then," said Boromir, his voice low.

"May I be blunt?" Legolas asked.

"I would prefer it."

With the briefest of smiles, Legolas nodded. "I fear Aragorn thinks to claim the Ring, and I fear you will encourage him. I wish to know if my fears are unfounded."

Startled, Boromir bit back an angry response. What right did the Elf have to question him? But even as he had the thought, he knew that Legolas had every right, just as all in Middle-earth would have had the right, had they known of their peril. Finally, he said, "We know not what lies ahead of us, nor what follows behind. We have no word of allies, nor of the Enemy. I would have us learn what we can from my brother before we choose a path."

Feeling his heart grow cold within him, Legolas could hardly find his voice to speak, and whispered, "There is but one path. The Ring _must_ be destroyed."

"Yes, I agree," Boromir said fervently."I only wonder whether it might aid us first."

"It is a corruption," said Legolas angrily, but Boromir brought a finger to his lips and glanced at their sleeping companion. Legolas subsided, though lightning still shone in his eyes.

Boromir turned to face Legolas fully then, and he took both the Elf's hands in his own. "Legolas," he said softly, "have you never faced a foe too great for your people to defeat?"

And there was a quiet desperation in Boromir's voice that caught Legolas, and he met the grey eyes of his companion, and saw in them a love and a fear so great that it shook him, and he was sent reeling by the sudden understanding of what these mortals faced. What _this_ mortal faced.

Legolas had lived a hundred lifetimes, had seen the world change and grow, cities crumble and new ones rise from their ashes. But this Man before him, with his brief spark of life, which would flare bright as a star and burn out in the barest moment of an Elven summer, he knew only this short span, had only this before him: his land, his people, his family, threatened by a foe against which they had only the determination that is born when hope dies.

This was all he had. No Grey Havens to fly to, no long golden summer in which to heal and rebuild. If Gondor fell, Sauron's defeat would be ashes in Boromir's heart, and the world would be for him naught but a grave. All this Legolas knew from the sound of Boromir's voice, the steel and the honey of it, the soft silver pleading in his fathomless mortal eyes.

"You heard Aragorn say what Gandalf told him," Boromir said. "He could end the war in the space of a breath, and do you doubt that he would still have strength enough to destroy it? Have faith in him, Legolas," he said, drawing Legolas' hands to his lips and pressing a warm kiss to the cool fingers he held. "Elrond esteems him highly, and so should we." 

And Legolas knew it could be true. Though the wise cautioned against using the Ring, they also knew that corruption of any kind does not happen all in a day. And Isildur had not been too cowed by the presence of the Ring to strike when the opportunity came to him. If Aragorn claimed the Ring and lacked the strength to destroy it, surely there would be one who had the strength to destroy Aragorn, though Legolas shied away from the thought.

And the Enemy pressed ever closer. If Gondor fell....

Legolas shook his head, gripping Boromir's hands. "I - I do esteem him, Boromir," he murmured, "but - "

"The Enemy's armies are stronger than ours, more vicious, more cruel," Boromir said. "And we know not whether Minas Tirith stands or has fallen," and the break in his voice when he spoke was unfeigned. "We cannot move until we know where we stand. Please, do nothing rash, my friend," he said, "and together we will discover what must be done."

Finally Legolas nodded, not looking at Boromir, and reclaiming his hands he stood and made his silent way back to his blankets. Boromir watched him go, rubbing the pain from his hands where Legolas had gripped them. It was true: the Elves, or at least this one, were stronger than they looked. He watched as Legolas lay down again, his back to Boromir, and Boromir cast his gaze around their campsite. In the moonlight that shone through the tall pines he saw the glitter of gold where Aragorn lay, and above it, the glitter of Aragorn's eyes, watching him in the dark. He felt the blood leave his face, and his breath stilled. It was certain that the Ranger had heard their conversation, and Boromir could not break away from Aragorn's regard. After a moment, though, Aragorn closed his eyes, and Boromir returned to his watch, fear settling around his heart like a snake.

Some hours later, he rose quietly and knelt beside Aragorn, and spoke softly.

"'Tis your watch, Aragorn," he murmured, and Aragorn woke, and sat up, running a hand across his face.

"Thank you, Captain," he said softly. "Any disturbances?"

"None," said Boromir, biting his tongue on the 'sir' that had tried to slip out. "Legolas was wakeful," he amended, realizing that Aragorn might see his omission of that as a lie, "but otherwise, none."

Aragorn nodded. "Very well then," he said, rising. "I relieve you. Take some rest."

"Yes, Aragorn," he murmured, and moved to his own blankets, missing the bemused look that Aragorn shot him.

Aragorn had learned to read well the hearts and minds of others, and often it had been only that which had kept him from the Enemy's traps. Now, regarding Boromir, he found himself questioning his instincts for the first time in many years. The strange conversation in the night between the Elf and the Man, and this sometime subservience at war with the Gondorian's pride and will, combined to leave Aragorn wondering what lay within Boromir's heart. Legolas had said he should make a friend of Boromir, and that Boromir would not deny him if he did, yet, though Aragorn knew they were not friends, there was something of obedience creeping into Boromir's manner, concern, and even respect, albeit grudging.

And that soft conversation beneath the stars, while they believed he slept.... _He could end the war in the space of a breath, and do you doubt that he would still have strength enough to destroy it? Have faith in him_....

Did Boromir have faith at last? did he have so great a faith that he believed Aragorn could claim the Ring and -

Aragorn shook his head sharply. That was the Ring's deceit, to make him believe Boromir had accepted him. Aragorn drew a silent shuddering breath and turned his gaze outward to the night, his fingers slipping unconsciously to the smooth curve of gold. There was much to do, and he could not risk trusting the Gondorian for no more than a cup of tea and a murmured acquiescence.

And whispered words in the dark. Aragorn's gaze fell on Legolas then, and though the Elf's eyes were open, they held the far-away gaze of dreams. The Elf and the Man, and which did Aragorn trust? 

The ache in his heart answered him: neither. Neither. A sudden wave of loneliness washed over him, such as he had not felt since the Shire, and he closed his eyes against it, his throat tightening. And then as if in mockery, a soft breeze swept past him, bearing on it the scent of roses and starlight, and for a moment Aragorn felt the longed-for touch of the Evenstar on his face, easing his heart, but only for a breath. Then that was gone as well, worse than if he had not felt it, and angrily he put thoughts of Arwen and of friendship aside. It was his watch; he had not the leisure for grief. With a last glance at his sleeping companions, he turned his eyes to the dark.

**North Ithilien**

The morning sun was growing warm as Haldir and Orophin prowled the riverbank.

"They scarcely thought to hide their camp," said Haldir, puzzled. "Do they think themselves so far from danger?"

Orophin shook his head. "I think not," he replied. "Look here, where they took the boats back to the current. They were weighted, but not with the weight of Men. The marks are too shallow."

"You think they have struck out into the forest?"

"And tried to throw off pursuit by making it seem as if they have stayed on the river." Orophin smiled. "A fairly good job they made of it, too, for Men, though I might have expected better from a Ranger raised by Elves."

"Perhaps they were rushed," said Haldir.

"Perhaps. Come, we shall find them soon."

All morning Boromir had felt Aragorn's anger flickering around the man like a fire barely contained by that cool exterior, but the sun was high before that anger was loosed. Boromir did not know what had provoked it, only that Legolas and Aragorn had been speaking quietly as they walked, in Elvish of which Boromir could catch only a few words, and then suddenly their voices were raised and they were facing each other across a space of inches, Aragorn's fist gripping the Elf's soft tunic, Legolas' hand on the hilt of his long knife.

Startled, Boromir rounded on them. "Aragorn, Legolas!" he snapped. "What is this about? Now is not the time!"

In the shadows, unseen by the trio, a tall figure in green and brown put fingers to lips for the cry that would summon the others, the voice of the hawk saying strangers were in Ithilien.

Releasing Legolas, Aragorn turned furious eyes on Boromir. "And you," he snarled, striding forward. "You would take it for yourself, or think to use me - _me!_ - as a tool for your own ends! Oh, yes, I heard you," he said coldly, the rasp of drawn steel as shocking to Boromir as a blow, and then Anduril's tip was pressed against his throat.

"Down," Aragorn growled, and the cry of a hawk cut the air as Boromir sank to his knees.

The hawk shrilled twice in quick succession, then once more, and Herion looked towards it. One more cry and he knew, it was Eradan, warning them of strangers, and of trouble. Swift as a shadow, he slipped through the trees towards the sound, and though he could not see them, he knew his two companions did as well. He moved quickly, his nerves alight, steeling himself for whatever they might find.

Boromir kept his eyes on Aragorn's, heart racing, and he did not speak.

"He will be dead if you do, Legolas," Aragorn said, watching Boromir, and past Aragorn's shoulder Boromir saw that Legolas had notched an arrow to the string of his bow and had trained it on the Ringbearer. "My hand is all that keeps Anduril from slipping forward through his neck," he went on conversationally. "Would you have both our deaths? Put it down, my friend."

Legolas hesitated, then lowered the weapon.

"Come around where I can see you," said Aragorn, his eyes never leaving Boromir's.

"Estel," Legolas began softly, but Aragorn pressed the blade against Boromir's throat.

"Do it."

Silently, Legolas came to stand beside Boromir.

Aragorn smiled, the smile not reaching his eyes. "'He could end the war in the space of a breath,' you said. And so I could." Thoughtfully, he twisted the blade slightly, digging into Boromir's flesh, but not yet deeply enough to cut. Boromir refused to close his eyes against the man who faced him, though the coldness of Aragorn's regard had set his heart in ice, and some part of him wondered whether, if he died here, Faramir and their father would ever know what had become of him. The glitter of the Ring in the sunlight seemed an almost comforting warmth compared to that fierce and angry gaze.

Haldir had notched an arrow to the string of his bow and drawn it back as soon as Aragorn had drawn Anduril, but Orophin had stayed his hand and now the Steward's son was one slip of that blade away from death.

"He has not claimed it - I see it on the chain 'round his neck."

"He threatens his comrades, brother. _It_ has taken _him_. Why did you stop me?"

"They are Men," Orophin replied. "Their ways are not ours. And if you slay him now, the Steward's son dies as well."

"Then the Steward's son dies. Orophin, it is the ruling Ring!"

"He has not claimed it. There may be time."

"There is no time."

And then there was a swift movement and Men in the distance between Haldir and his prey.

"Hold, stranger," and out of the trees stepped four men in the forest-colored garb of Rangers, long bows with slender and wicked bolts trained on Aragorn and Legolas. "Strike and you will be dead before his body falls."

Aragorn met the Ranger's eyes, and Herion almost fell back under the fury and power that blazed around the man. "You take a terrible chance with the life of your Captain," Aragorn said, a cruel smile playing about his lips. "Or is it of so little importance that you would threaten the one who holds it in his hands?"

Herion's eyes flickered to the horn that Boromir bore. This could be none other. "Stranger, take your weapon from his throat," he said, his own anger and fear turning his voice to a snarl."If this is the Steward's son, I can assure you that the Steward would rather he die on his knees at the blade of brigand than that I release you," he said, willing his voice to ice to cover the lie.

Aragorn laughed and the sound was like a knife. "Boromir," he said, "is this true?"

"It is," Boromir said softly, not himself sure what the truth of it was. "Aragorn, believe him." Then in a strong voice he said, "I am Boromir son of Denethor, and your Captain-general. Come and face me, Ranger, and see."

Keeping his weapon trained on Aragorn, Herion circled the two men until he faced Boromir.

Boromir smiled faintly. "Herion," he said. "Well met."

"My lord," said Herion quietly. "Welcome home."

"Thank you," Boromir replied.

"So, Ranger," said Aragorn. "Will you and your men lower your weapons, or shall I kill your Captain?"

"Herion," said Boromir, and Herion nodded abruptly.

"I await your command, my lord," he said.

Boromir turned to Aragorn, who regarded him with surprise, and something like amusement. "Aragorn," he said, "you may kill me, and they will take you, and what you carry, and you will die for what you have done, or you may release me and place yourself under my protection."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. "And what protection would you provide me," he asked, "who have had my blade at your throat twice now, and who covet what I carry for yourself?"

"You have my word as Gondor's Captain-general, and as Captain of the Tower Guard, and as heir to the Steward of Gondor," said Boromir, "you will not be harmed, nor will any wrest from you your burden."

Aragorn's eyes narrowed as he considered. Finally he murmured, "Swear to me by the White City."

Unhesitatingly, Boromir answered, "I so swear."

Another moment, and Aragorn withdrew, and slipped Anduril back into its sheath.

Haldir grimaced. "Had you but let me strike when I could -"

"Then the Ruling Ring would be in the hands of those Southern Rangers," said Orophin mildly.

With a dismissive snort, Haldir went on angrily, "And now we must either murder them all and seize it, proving we are no more fit to serve our lady than the lowest criminal, or once again follow and wait, and wait."

Orophin shrugged. "Then we follow," he said, "and wait, and wait."

Boromir stood and turned to Herion. "This man is under my protection," he said, though he knew Herion had heard. "He is not to be harmed, nor our companion. And I thank you," he finished with a smile.

"As you will, my lord," said Herion, and then with an uncertain glance at his men, he said, "But my lord, until Captain Faramir returns from Minas Tirith, I -" and he hesitated, then said, "I must insist that your companions be disarmed, and," and again he hesitated until Boromir urged him with a nod to continue, "that they be bound as well." Frowning, he said in a rush, "Captain, he had his blade at your throat - I cannot allow him to go armed in these lands until and unless he is proven not a threat."

Boromir nodded thoughtfully, and after a moment said, "Disarm them, but they are not to be bound."

Aragorn scowled. "Thank you, Captain," he said, his tone cold, "but I think I will keep my blade."

Turning to him Boromir said sharply, "You will disarm, Aragorn, or you will _be_ disarmed." With a frustrated shake of his head he said, "It is a reasonable request, given the circumstances under which these Rangers came upon us. Comply. _Please_."

A pause, and then Aragorn was unbuckling his sword belt, saying angrily, "I will comply, Captain, but you shall regret asking it of me."

Boromir had no doubt it was a promise Aragorn would keep.


End file.
